Page 7 of My Ex-Military Biker

I open the first aid kit. Everything inside is organized with the same precision as the folded towel.

Gauze in one section. Antiseptic in another. Medical tape. Scissors. Hydrogen peroxide. Even the supplies are arranged by likely order of use.

This is a man who's done this before. Probably many times.

I pull out what I need, and set it on the counter in the sequence I'll use it.

The field dressing has to come off first. I reach for the edge of the tape, find the corner, start peeling it back. The gauze underneath is stuck to his skin with dried blood.

I work it loose, watching his face for pain response. He doesn't make a sound. Doesn't flinch. Just sits there with that same steady attention focused on my hands.

When the gauze comes free, fresh blood wells immediately. The cut is clean. Shallow enough that it won't need stitches. Maybe a quarter inch at the deepest point. It'll scar but it'll heal.

I reach for the hydrogen peroxide, pour it onto clean gauze.

"This is going to sting," I say automatically.

"I know."

Of course he knows.

I press the gauze to the wound. He still doesn't make a sound, but I feel his stomach muscles tense under my other hand where it's braced against his ribs for balance.

The bathroom doesn't allow for distance.

He's sitting, I'm standing, and to reach the wound at the right angle I have to step between his knees.

The position puts me inches from his chest.

Close enough to smell him. Sweat and road dust and blood.

I focus on cleaning the wound.

This is what I'm good at. Following protocols. Executing tasks. I can do this without thinking.

Except I'm thinking about everything except the wound.

The heat coming off his body, the way his breathing stays even and controlled even though this has to hurt, the texture of his skin under my hands.

I'm touching a man and deciding where my hands go.

That's never been true before.

With Tyler, touch was negotiated. He initiated, I accommodated. Even when it was supposed to be mutual, I was always responding rather than choosing. Playing the role of someone who wanted to be touched rather than actually wanting it.

This is different.

My hands are steady because I'm competent. My assessment is accurate because I know what I'm doing. But underneath the clinical surface, something else is happening.

I'm aware of him.

A man whose body is right here and real and close enough that if I moved my hand six inches to the left I'd be touching him somewhere that has nothing to do with medical necessity.

The thought makes heat spread low in my stomach.

I finish cleaning the wound. Reach for the antiseptic. Pour it onto fresh gauze. Press it to his skin.

He makes a sound this time. Small. Barely audible. Just a quick intake of breath through his teeth.