Page 14 of My Ex-Military Biker

"We can deal with that tomorrow."

Tomorrow. The word implies I'm staying. That this isn't just a ride to his house and then figuring out next steps.

"I don't want to impose," I say automatically.

The words come out before I think about them. Years of making sure I'm not inconveniencing anyone.

"You're not," he says.

"I'm a stranger sitting in your living room in a dirty wedding dress. I'm definitely imposing."

"If you were imposing, I'd tell you."

The way he says it. Matter-of-fact. Like he actually would just tell me if I was a problem.

"Okay," I say.

"You can take the bed," he says. "I'll take the couch."

"You're injured."

"I've slept on worse than a couch with worse than this." He gestures to his ribs.

"I don't want to kick you out of your own bed."

"You're not kicking me out, I'm offering."

We look at each other for a beat again.

"Okay," I say finally. "Thank you."

He nods. "Come on."

I follow him down the hallway.

He opens the door to the bedroom. Plain like everything else, bed made with corners so sharp they look painful, dresser with nothing on top, window with plain curtains.

He opens a drawer. Pulls out sweatpants and a t-shirt. Hands them to me.

Our hands touch when I take the clothes.

The contact lasts maybe half a second but I feel it everywhere.

He pulls his hand back.

"Towels are in the closet if you want to shower." he says.

"Thank you."

He nods, looks at me for another moment, then leaves.

I stand in the middle of his bedroom holding his clothes.

Trying to remember how to breathe normally.

Trying to process what I'm feeling, which is want so intense it's making my hands shake.

I sit on the edge of his bed. The wedding dress spreads around me like evidence of a crime I committed.