That touch pulls low through my belly, warm and sure.
"Relax," he says, voice low enough it vibrates up my spine. "You're wired tight, Turner."
"I'm literally on the back of a motorcycle with zero protective shell. Wired tight seems reasonable."
He huffs a laugh. "Your body loves it."
I do. God help me, I do.
The light turns green. He kicks us forward, and the engine roars, wind pulling at my hair where it escapes the helmet. His cut flaps against my chest, the patched leather warm from his body. My arms are snug around his waist, fingers hooked in his belt.
It's become a reflex. Anchor points and pressure grip, muscle memory built over hundreds of miles.
The town slides by in familiar pieces. Brick storefronts with faded signs. The bakery Maggie bullies us into visiting twice a week. The thrift store where Frankie "accidentally" finds things that fit me. My hospital Willowridge General, with its wide windows glowing pale in the morning light.
Two years ago, I was sprinting through a parking lot, thanking every deity that would listen that the man from my one-night stand was there. Now I'm arguing with my husband about seatbelts, motorcycle physics before grocery shopping, and a family lunch.
We turn off Main and roll down a side street lined with warehouses. East's garage comes into view first, all glass doors and metal siding, The Outsiders logo painted big and bold on one wall. Next door, the two-story brick clubhouse with that same patch over the door.
Home. I flinch.
Knox pulls into the lot behind the garage and kills the engine, the sudden quiet pressing in around us. My ears ring faintly asthe world narrows to ticking metal and his heartbeat under my cheek.
He taps my thigh twice. "Off, nurse."
I roll my eyes inside the helmet. "You know that's not my official title."
"You patch my idiots and the town's idiots. Nurse works."
He steadies the bike as I swing a leg over and climb off. Before I can straighten, his hand closes around my hips, dragging me backward until my spine kisses his chest.
"You good?" he murmurs, lips close to my ear, helmet bumping his jaw.
I nod, aware of exactly how hard he is behind his jeans.
He catches where my attention goes and chuckles, low and sinful. "Every time you wrap yourself around me on this thing. Every. Fucking. Time."
Heat rushes to my face. "We're literally here for saline and gauze."
"Yeah. And after lunch we're literally going to be naked, so…" He shrugs, stating the weather.
He unclips my helmet, lifts it off carefully, fingers brushing my cheek.
"What?" I ask, self-conscious.
"Just like seeing you here," he says simply. "In my town. On my bike." He kisses my forehead, light and brief, then steps back, tugging me toward the side door. "Come on. East's guy boxed this order last night. We're just picking up and signing off."
Inside, the garage has the scent of oil, metal, and the faint citrus cleaner Frankie insists on using when she steals a corner for custom paint. A car sits up on a lift. Two younger prospects move around it. Kyle's under the hood, sleeves shoved up, while the other kid rolls a cart of tools.
"Vice!" one calls, wiping his hands. "Boxes are by the office."
"Don't call me that," Knox grumbles automatically, then smirks when the kid flinches. "Unless you're in front of Malachi."
I trail after him toward a neat stack of boxes by the office door. Labels flash past in tidy printing: STERILE GAUZE. IV START KITS. SALINE. SUTURE MATERIAL.
All part of the little unofficial clinic Maggie and I carved out in the back hallway of the clubhouse. You're already doing the job, she'd said when I got hired at the hospital. Might as well have the tools.
Knox hefts two boxes at once as though they weigh nothing. Muscles bunch along his arms, and his T-shirt pulls across his shoulders. My brain does a quick, involuntary rewind to the way he moved over me last night.
