Page 18 of My Protective Biker

"We don't—"

"Roan." I frame his face with my hands. "You've been shot. You've been up twenty-four hours. You need sleep."

He looks at me and I watch desire war with exhaustion and pain. Finally he nods.

"Yeah. Okay."

I climb off his lap and stand, offer my hand. He takes it and lets me help him up, which tells me how much he's hurting. I gather my supplies while he watches.

"Come on. You need to lie down."

His bedroom is simple and clean. Queen bed, plain sheets, dresser, nothing extra. He sits on the edge and looks up at me.

"Stay."

Not a question, not quite a command. Just what he wants.

"Yeah. I'm staying."

I set my bag down and toe off my shoes. He's already lying back, settling on his right side to keep weight off the injury.

I climb in and curl into his right side, head on his chest, arm draped across his stomach.

His arm comes around me and pulls me closer, hand settling on my hip.

"I was scared," I tell him quietly. "When Tate called."

His hand tightens. "I'm okay."

"You got shot."

"But I'm okay. Zoe's okay. That's what matters."

I press closer, listening to his heartbeat. Steady and strong and alive.

"This is what it looks like," I say. Not a question.

"Yeah." He doesn't apologize or soften it. "This is what it looks like."

I think about that. About the call at three-thirty in the morning. About the blood and the wound and treating it on his bathroom floor. About the fact that my hands stayed steady and I didn't panic and I handled it the same way I handle emergencies at the clinic.

About the fact that he told me exactly what his world involved and then showed me, and I'm still here.

I tilt my head to look at him. He's already watching me.

"Ask me tomorrow," I tell him. "When we've both slept."

"Okay." His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back. "Tomorrow."

I settle against his chest and close my eyes. Outside the sky is starting to lighten, that pre-dawn gray. I'm exhausted bone-deep but I don't want to move.

His breathing evens out first, his body going heavy as sleep takes him. I lie there listening to his heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

I treated a gunshot wound at four in the morning. Kissed him desperate and hungry on his bathroom floor. I'm lying in his bed wrapped around him and it feels right.

Tomorrow I'll have to think about what this means.

Tonight I'm here and he's alive and that's enough.