Page 6 of My Ex-Military Biker

Everything clean and functional and containing almost nothing personal.

She looks at me. I look at her.

The charge between us is real, taking up more space than either of our bodies.

I don't know her name. Don't know why she was sitting on the side of Route 9 in a wedding dress. Don't know anything except that she's here, in my house, and I want her here.

She's waiting for me to tell her what happens next.

Instead I just look at her for three seconds too long.

She looks back.

"Bathroom's this way," I finally say.

My voice comes out rougher than I intended. She doesn't react to it, just nods once and follows me down the hallway.

Chapter 2 — Natalie

His bathroom is smaller than I expected.

Not dirty, though. Just small and functional in the way that says a single person lives here and has never needed more space than this.

He moves to the sink, opens the cabinet underneath, and pulls out a first aid kit. Military issue. Green canvas with clips and compartments.

I recognize it from the workplace safety course I took two years ago when the firm made everyone sit through eight hours of emergency preparedness training that felt like checking a box rather than preparing for anything real.

This kit looks like it's been used.

He sets it on the counter, then sits on the closed toilet lid. Doesn't ask where I want him. Just takes the position that makes the most sense and waits.

I wash my hands at the sink.

The water runs cold, then lukewarm, never quite hot. I use the bar of soap sitting there.

When I reach for the towel, it's folded with corners so precise they could've been measured.

I dry my hands slowly, buying time. Because once I turn around and actually do this, I'm going to be touching him.

That shouldn't feel significant. It's medical. It's the reason he brought me here.

But my stomach is tight anyway.

I turn back to him.

"I need to see it properly," I say.

He nods once, then pulls his shirt over his head in a single smooth motion.

I forget how to breathe for approximately three seconds.

The wound is there. Six inches across his ribs on the left side, field dressing soaked dark with blood. I should be looking at that. Assessing that. Instead I'm seeing everything else.

His body is lean, shoulders broader than his hips, arms roped with muscle. There's a scar running from his right shoulder down to mid-bicep. Old enough to be silvered. Another scar lower on his ribs, smaller, something that healed badly or was never treated right.

Dark hair across his chest, trailing down his stomach in a line that disappears into the waistband of his jeans.

I force my eyes back to the wound before the looking becomes obvious.