Page 45 of My Veteran Biker

I look at him standing under the streetlight, this man who's offering to care for my dying father like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Okay," I say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. When the time comes, we'll bring him here."

We walk the rest of the way in silence. Inside his house I stand in the kitchen and look around at the bare counters, the empty walls.

"This place needs some life in it," I say.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Something that says people actually live here instead of just existing."

Knox comes to stand beside me. "You live here now."

"Do I?"

"You slept here last night. You're here now. Your toothbrush is in my bathroom. Yeah, you live here."

"My lease isn't up for four months."

"So keep it for storage. But sleep here. With me."

I turn to look at him. He's watching me with that same steady attention, waiting for my answer like it's the only thing that matters.

"Okay," I say. "I'll stay."

Something in his face softens. He pulls me against him and kisses the top of my head. "Good."

We stand there in his kitchen holding each other while the refrigerator hums and the house settles around us. After a moment he says, "You hungry? I could make something."

"You don't have anything to make."

"I've got eggs. Toast."

"That's breakfast food."

"It's food. That's what matters."

I laugh and it feels good, easy. "Okay. Make me eggs."

He does. We sit at his kitchen table eating scrambled eggs and toast at ten o'clock at night, talking about nothing important. About whether I should bring my furniture from the rental or just leave it. About the fact that his coffee maker is dying and needs replacing. About Dad's doctor appointment next week and whether Knox can come.

Normal things. Ordinary things. The kind of things people discuss when they're building a life together.

When we're done I wash the dishes while he dries, and we move around each other in the small kitchen like we've been doing this for years instead of days.

In bed later, I lie with my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. His hand traces lazy patterns on my back.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how different this is from what I expected when I came back to Bloomfield."