Page 10 of My Veteran Biker

He steps back without a word, holding the door open.

Inside the air conditioning hits like a wall. My skin prickles, too-hot blood meeting cold air.

I follow him to the kitchen because standing in his living room alone feels worse than being near him.

The kitchen is small, aggressively clean in that way that happens when someone doesn't cook much.

The counter has nothing on it. No coffee maker, no toaster, no evidence anyone actually uses this space for anything beyond opening takeout containers.

He takes the pasta salad from my hands and our fingers brush. Just barely, just enough that I feel the calluses on his palm.

Heat shoots up my arm and settles low in my stomach where it has no business being.

"You eaten?" I ask.

"Not yet."

He opens the container and stands there looking at it like he's trying to decide something. Then he pulls two plates from the cabinet, portions out the pasta with the kind of precision I remember from watching him work on engines.

Every movement deliberate, nothing wasted.

He hands me a plate and fork. Doesn't ask if I want to sit or stay.

We eat standing at the counter like people who've forgotten how to be comfortable anywhere.

I can hear the refrigerator humming, the air conditioner cycling on. Outside someone drives by with music playing too loud.

"Did your car start this morning?" he asks.

"Yeah. Thank you for fixing it."

"Battery's still dying. You need a new one."

"I know. I'll get one this week."

More silence. He finishes his pasta and sets the plate in the sink with a precision that makes me think he's counting seconds until he can ask me to leave without being rude.

Or maybe that's just what I'm telling myself.

"How long have you been in the MC?" I ask.

His shoulders stiffen. Not much, just enough that I notice.

"Seventeen years."

I wait for him to explain or defend it. He doesn't. Just stands there with his hands braced on the counter behind him, watching me with that same steady attention he used to give everything that mattered.

It used to make me feel seen. Now it makes me feel exposed.

"Is that why you bought a house here?" I ask. "For the club?"

"I bought a house because I needed somewhere to live."

"You could've lived anywhere."

"I chose here."

"Why?"