Page 23 of My Veteran Biker

Maybe that's me asking him to prioritize my fear over the life he's built, the family he's chosen, the code he lives by.

"Perry died alone," Knox says. "And I keep thinking about that. About what it means to have no one who notices you're gone. No one who's waiting for you to come home."

"You told me that already, doesn’t make it easier."

"I know. But I can't stop thinking about it. About the fact that I've been alone for so many years and I told myself it was what I wanted. But lying here with you, knowing you were awake at three in the morning waiting to see if I was dead... that changes things."

"What things?"

"Makes me want to come home. Makes me want to have someone waiting. Makes me want to matter to someone outside the club in a way that's just mine."

My throat goes tight. I reach out and touch his face, feeling the rough stubble under my palm, the warmth of his skin.

"You matter to me," I say.

"I know."

"But I'm terrified."

"Me too."

We sit there in the bright morning light with honesty between us instead of comfort and I realize this is what I never had with Ben. This willingness to sit in the hard truth instead of smoothing it over with reassurance.

Knox leans forward and kisses me.

It's not urgent like it was hours ago in my bathroom. It's slower, like he's trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.

I kiss him back and feel something shift in my chest, some final wall coming down.

When we break apart I'm breathing hard and he's looking at me like he's making a decision.

"I want you," he says.

"I know."

"No, I mean right now. In the daylight where I can see all of you."

My stomach clenches. It's one thing to kiss in a bathroom at dawn when we're both running on adrenaline and fear. It's another to be seen in full morning light when my body looks nothing like it did the last time he touched me.

"I'm not in my twenties anymore…"

"I know. I was there."

"I mean, my body is different. I'm heavier. Things don't sit the same way they used to."

He reaches out and takes my hand, placing it flat on his stomach. I can feel the muscle there, solid under my palm, but also the slight softness that comes with age.

"I'm forty-seven," he says. "I've got scars. Gray hair. My body doesn't move the way it used to. And I don't care what you look like because you're you and I've wanted you since the morning you walked to the trash bin in those shorts."

"That's different."

"How?"

"You looked good in those shorts."

"So did you."

I want to believe him. Want to take this simple offering of desire and not complicate it with my own insecurity. But decades of living in a body that doesn't meet conventional standards has taught me to be careful about trust.