Page 18 of My Veteran Biker

She doesn't move out of the doorway. Just stands there looking at me like she's trying to decide something.

"I heard the gunfire," she says. "I thought..."

She doesn't finish but I hear it anyway. Thought I was dead. Thought I wasn't coming back.

"I'm fine," I say.

"You're bleeding through the bandage."

I look down. She's right. The gauze under my shirt is soaked red, blood seeping through the fabric.

"Come inside," she says.

I follow her.

Her place is warmer than mine, the AC struggling to keep up. She leads me to the bathroom and turns on the light.

It's small, barely room for both of us. She pulls out a first aid kit from under the sink, sets it on the counter.

"Shirt off," she says.

I pull it over my head. The movement makes the wound pull, fresh blood welling up along the graze. I drop the shirt on the floor and lean against the sink while she opens the kit.

She's close enough now that I can smell her. That same clean scent from before, soap and skin and something underneath that's just her. Her hands are steady when she peels back the gauze Tate applied, exposing the wound.

"This needs stitches," she says.

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. It's still bleeding."

"Francis."

"Do you want me to call someone? A doctor?"

"No."

She looks up at me and we're inches apart in this tiny bathroom. Her eyes are brown, darker than I remember. There are lines at the corners that weren't there before. Her face is fuller, softer, and I want to touch it so badly my hands shake with the restraint.

"Then let me clean it," she says.

She works cautiously, wiping away the blood with antiseptic that burns like hell.

I don't move. Just watch her face as she concentrates, the way her teeth catch her bottom lip when she's focused.

Her hands are gentle but sure.

When she's finished cleaning it she applies fresh gauze, taping it in place with steady fingers.

The whole time I'm watching the way her tank top clings to her breasts, the way her stomach rounds softly under the fabric. The way her thighs press together when she shifts her weight.

I want her.

Want to pull her against me and feel her soft body against mine. Want to know if she still makes that sound in the back of her throat when she's aroused. Want to stop pretending I don't think about her every time I'm alone.

"Done," she says, stepping back.

But she doesn't step far enough. We're still too close, still in each other's space in a bathroom that barely holds one person comfortably.