Falling for my Biker Roommate

10

Sleep never came.

Every time I shut my eyes I saw the same picture: Lily in that hospital room, the newborn girl tucked against her chest, her face soft and open like she had finally found something she had been missing for years. I stood on the other side of the room feeling like a stranger in my own skin. The look in her eyes when she held that baby stayed with me long after we left.

By four in the morning I gave up fighting it. I pulled on jeans, left the shirt behind, and went downstairs.

The kitchen lights hummed to life. I filled both big stainless sinks with the hottest water I could stand, dumped in bleach, and started scrubbing. The sharp smell burned the back of my throat. Grease came off in gray swirls. I worked the brush hard into every corner of the drains like the dirt had answers I needed.

I didn’t hear the door.

Bare feet whispered across the tile. I looked up and there she was—Lily, hair messy from the pillow, wearing an old T-shirt and those tiny pajama shorts that always made my brain short-circuit. She blinked against the bright lights, arms crossed over her chest.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked, voice still rough.

“Yeah.”

She walked in farther and boosted herself onto the opposite counter. Her legs swung slow. The kitchen suddenly felt too small. I could smell her citrus soap even over the bleach.

“You only deep-clean at this hour when something’s eating you,” she said.

I kept my eyes on the sink. “Helps clear my head.”

“The twins?”

“Among other things.”

She didn’t push. We stayed quiet for a stretch—me scrubbing, her watching. The silence wasn’t empty. It was packed with everything we kept swallowing.

“They’re so tiny,” she said after a while. “I forgot how small newborns are.”

I rinsed the brush. “You looked like you belonged holding her.”

Her breath caught soft. I heard it clear across the space.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time,” she said. “A family. Kids. The whole loud, messy life.”

The words landed heavy in my chest. I had always known. It was one of the biggest reasons I kept the line drawn so sharp. I shut off the water and dried my hands on a clean towel.

“You’ll be good at it,” I told her.

She was quiet a beat. “What about you? Do you ever think about it? Even a little?”

I finally looked at her. Those dark eyes were waiting. The honest answer sat on my tongue like something bitter. I swallowed it down.

“Not really. I’m better off leaving that door closed.”

She nodded once, slow, like the answer didn’t surprise her and still hurt anyway. The air between us tightened. I needed something else to do with my hands before I crossed a line I couldn’t take back.

I pulled the small saucepan off the back burner. I had been playing with a new house sauce all week—roasted red pepper, a touch of smoke, something sweet that turned sharp at the end. I turned the flame low and stirred until it warmed through.

“Taste this for me.”

Lily slid off the counter and came closer. I dipped a clean silver spoon, blew across it once, and held it out.

She leaned in. Her fingers brushed mine as she steadied the handle. The touch was light, barely there, but it shot straight up my arm like a live wire. Neither of us pulled away. She closed her lips around the spoon and tasted.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a second. A soft sound left her throat. “God… that’s really good.”

“Yeah?” My voice came out lower than I meant.

She nodded, still holding the spoon with me. Our fingers stayed tangled around the warm metal. The kitchen went completely still except for the quiet hum of the refrigerator. I could see the pulse beating in her throat. I could feel every ridge of her knuckles under mine.

We stayed like that longer than any taste test needed.

Finally she let go. The spoon clinked when I set it in the sink. She took one small step back. I turned the burner off.

“I should try to sleep,” she said.

“Yeah. Me too.”

She walked to the doorway, then paused and looked over her shoulder. “Leo?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming with me to the hospital. It… helped.”

“Always,” I said.

The word hung in the air, too honest for four in the morning. She gave me a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes and disappeared up the stairs.

I stood alone in the bright kitchen, both hands braced on the counter, staring at the spot where her fingers had touched mine. The sauce still sat warm in the pan. The sinks were cleaner than they had been in months. None of it fixed a thing.

I shut off the lights and climbed the stairs in the dark. Her bedroom door was closed. I stopped outside it for half a second, then forced my feet to keep moving.

Inside my room I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall that separated us. Sleep still felt impossible. Every time I closed my eyes I saw her face over that spoon—eyes soft, mouth parted, fingers warm against mine.

I lay back and waited for morning, knowing full well that morning wouldn’t change a single thing between us.