Her Possessive Bikers

16. Indy

16

INDY

T he sizzle of bacon fills the kitchen as I whisk eggs in a bowl, adding a dash of cream and fresh herbs. After what all Kyler went through last night, I figure the least I can do for him is make him a proper breakfast. The medicine he needs to take shouldn't be done on an empty stomach.

He fared well during the night, but I know he was in pain. But he handled it like a fucking champ. I probably would have been okay to get some sleep, but something kept me up, checking over him like a mama hen.

Footsteps creak on the stairs behind me, and I turn to greet him. My words catch in my throat.

Kyler stands in the doorway, shirtless, a pair of grey sweatpants hang loosely on his hips. His dirty blonde hair loose around his shoulders instead of in its usual bun. The bandages I applied last night cover parts of his torso, but they can't hide the defined muscles underneath. Various tattoos peek out between the gauze - nothing excessive like some of the other club members, just elegant line work that complements his frame.

"Something smells amazing," he says, running a hand through his hair.

I turn back to the stove quickly, hoping he didn't catch me staring. "Just some breakfast before your next round of meds. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got in a bar fight." He chuckles, then winces. "But better than last night, thanks to you."

"Those cuts should heal up nice," I say, plating the eggs and bacon. "Might leave some interesting scars though."

"Yeah?" He traces one of the larger bandages across his ribs. "Guess I'll have some stories to tell."

"Sit," I order, pointing to a chair with my spatula. "Doctor's orders."

He smirks but complies, lowering himself carefully into the seat. "Yes ma'am."

The morning light streaming through the window catches the angles of his face, softening his features. Without his usual guarded expression, he looks younger, almost vulnerable. I busy myself with getting juice from the fridge, trying to focus on being professional rather than noticing how the sun turns his hair to gold.

I set a plate in front of Kyler and catch myself staring again. He's smiling - actually smiling - and it transforms his whole face. The usual brooding expression melts away, revealing dimples I never knew existed. His green eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly he looks years younger.

I lean against the counter, watching Kyler eat. Last night's conversation replays in my mind - his pain-med induced confession about wanting someone to come home to, someone like me. The way he'd looked at me through heavy-lidded eyes before drifting off to sleep. Does he remember saying it?

"You're staring," Kyler says between bites, not looking up from his plate.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "Just making sure you're not about to pass out face-first into those eggs."

He glances up, a hint of that rare smile playing at his lips. "Sure that's all it is?"

My heart skips. There's something in his tone that makes me think he remembers more than he's letting on. I busy myself with cleaning up the pan, buying time to steady my voice. "Maybe I'm just surprised to see you can actually let your hair down. Literally."

"You should see me on casual Fridays." He runs his fingers through those golden waves, and I fight the urge to do the same.

"The MC has casual Fridays? What, do you wear flip-flops with your leather?"

His laugh fills the kitchen, deep and genuine. It's a sound I could get used to hearing. The thought catches me off guard - how easily I can picture mornings like this becoming routine. Him at my table, sharing breakfast and lazy banter. No pressure to be the tough biker or the responsible paramedic. Just us.

"Thanks," he says softly, pushing his empty plate away. "Not just for the food. For everything."

I meet his eyes, finding none of the usual walls he puts up. "Anytime. Really."

The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility. Dad always said Kyler was different from the others - quieter, more thoughtful. Looking at him now, I understand exactly what he meant.

"This beats hospital food by a mile," he says, digging into the eggs.

I slide into the chair across from him. "I'd hope so. Though technically, you should've been in a hospital."

"Nah." He waves his fork. "Got the better end of the deal. Personal nurse, home-cooked breakfast..." His smile widens, and my stomach does a little flip.

"Speaking of nursing," I say, trying to keep my voice professional, "how's the pain level?"

"Three out of ten. Your meds are good stuff."

"Dad's old prescription stash came in handy." I pause, pushing eggs around my plate. "He always kept extras, just in case."

Kyler's expression softens. "He looked out for everyone. Especially us strays."

"Yeah, well, speaking of looking out for people..." I lean forward, fixing him with my best stern paramedic stare. "I'll drive you back to the clubhouse, but only if you promise to follow wound care instructions. No skipping bandage changes, no getting them wet, and absolutely no more bar fights for at least two weeks."

He raises his right hand. "Scout's honor."

"Were you ever actually a scout?"

"Hell no. But I promise anyway." His smile returns, gentler this time. "Thanks, Indy. For everything."

"That's what family's for, right?" The words slip out before I can stop them, but Kyler's answering grin makes my cheeks heat.

We finish breakfast in comfortable silence, the only sounds the gentle clink of forks against plates and birds chirping outside. I steal glances at Kyler between bites, watching how he moves carefully to avoid pulling at his stitches.

"Let me grab my stuff," he says, pushing back from the table. His boots thud softly on each stair as he heads up.

I busy myself loading the dishwasher, trying not to think about how different he looks with his guard down. Or how the morning light had traced the lines of his tattoos. Or especially how my fingers had itched to brush that loose hair back from his face.

The stairs creak again and I turn to see him fully dressed - black t-shirt, jeans, and his kutte settled carefully over his shoulders. His hair's back in its usual bun, and just like that, he's transformed back into the MC secretary. I hate how disappointed I feel about it.

"Ready?" I grab my keys from the counter.

"Yeah." He pauses at the bottom of the stairs. "Thanks again for playing nurse. And chef."

"Anytime. Though maybe next time we skip the whole knife fight part?"

His laugh is quiet but genuine. "I'll do my best."

We head out to the Chevelle, the morning already heating up despite the early hour. Kyler slides into the passenger seat with only a slight wince, and I pretend not to notice how he has to adjust to accommodate his injuries.

"Your chariot awaits," I say, starting the engine. The V8 rumbles to life, and Kyler's face lights up like a kid at Christmas.

"Man, this sound never gets old."

I pat the dashboard fondly. "Dad always said there's nothing like American muscle."

The drive to the clubhouse is quick, but I find myself taking the longer route, stretching out these last few minutes before Kyler has to go back to being the tough biker, and I have to go back to being... whatever I am here.