Page 63 of Wings
The clubhouse common room hummed with its usual evening chaos—someone's bike rumbling in the bay, classic rock bleeding from the jukebox, the crack of pool balls from the back corner. But for once, I wasn't on the edges watching it all happen.
I'd claimed a spot at the big wooden table that dominated the center of the room. My new coloring book spread open before me, the one Gabe had picked out with dragons and fairies and intricate Celtic knots. A rainbow of crayons scattered across the scarred wood like confetti.
"That purple is gorgeous," Mia said from beside me, looking up from her wedding magazine. "Really makes the wings pop."
I hummed agreement, too deep in little space to form real words. The dragon I was working on had these elaborate wings—all swirls and patterns that demanded different shades of purple and blue. My tongue poked out in concentration as I layered colors, building depth and intensity.
"She's been at it for an hour," Mandy observed from my other side, her laptop open to some spreadsheet that made my head hurt to look at. "Completely zoned out. It's kind of adorable."
Normally, being talked about like I wasn't there would spike anxiety. But wrapped in the soft cocoon of little space, their voices just became part of the comfortable background noise. Safe sounds. Family sounds.
"Leave her be," Mia defended, reaching over to stroke my hair. "She had a long day. This is good for her."
Her touch felt nice, gentle and uncomplicated. Safe. I leaned into it slightly, never stopping my coloring.
The dragon was coming alive under my hands. I'd given him wise eyes—gold with flecks of green, like Daddy's when he was proud of me. His scales shifted from deep purple to midnight blue, each one carefully outlined. But it was the wings that consumed most of my attention. They needed to be perfect. Strong enough to carry him but delicate enough to catch light.
"Wings," I murmured, not really meaning to speak aloud.
"Yeah, baby. Beautiful wings." Mia's agreement was soft, understanding that I was elsewhere.
Movement across the room caught my attention. Daddy stood near the bar with Duke, their heads bent in serious conversation. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the controlled way he held his body that meant he was planning violence.
For someone else, that might have spiked fear. For me, it just made me feel safer. My Daddy was handling the scary things so I could sit here coloring dragons. The collar around my neck warmed against my skin like a reminder.
He must have felt my gaze because his head turned, eyes finding mine across the crowded room. His expression softened immediately, that particular look reserved just for me. A small smile, barely there, but it made my insides go squirmy in the best way.
'Okay?' he mouthed.
I nodded, holding up my purple crayon like evidence. His smile widened fractionally before Duke reclaimed his attention.
"God, you two are disgustingly cute," Mandy commented, but her tone was fond. "The way he looks at you? Like you hung the moon?"
"More like she colored it purple," Mia teased.
They laughed, and I giggled too, the sound bubbling up from that young place inside. Everything felt simple here. Good guys and bad guys, protectors and threats, but none of it touching me in this warm bubble of safety.
My crayon moved in steady strokes, filling in the dragon's wings with patient care. Somewhere in the background, Thor's booming laugh echoed off the walls. Someone started arguing about motorcycle parts. The jukebox switched to something slower, bluesy.
But I just colored, humming something tuneless under my breath. The dragon needed a background now. Maybe clouds, soft and puffy. Or stars. Dragons should fly among stars.
"She's humming," Mandy stage-whispered. "That's so precious I might die."
"Shh," Mia scolded. "You'll bring her up."
But I was too deep for their voices to pull me out. Too safe in this space where nothing could hurt me. Where Daddy handled the mean people and I got to make beautiful things. Where my family sat around me like guardian angels—if angels wore leather and carried guns and cursed like sailors.
I reached for the silver crayon, deciding on stars after all.
Across the room, Gabe caught my eye again. This time he tapped his wrist—our signal for time check. But I wasn't ready to surface yet, wasn't ready to leave this soft space where dragons had perfect wings and threats stayed firmly outside.
I held up five fingers. Five more minutes.
His nod was indulgent, already giving in like he always did when I was little. My Daddy, my protector, my safe place in a dangerous world.
I bent back to my coloring, silver stars blooming across the page. Each one was a promise, a point of light in darkness. Like the Heavy Kings themselves—rough men who made the world safer through controlled violence. Like Gabe, who'd taken my broken pieces and showed me how to fly.
The dragon was almost done now. Just needed a few more touches, a bit more shading on the wings. They were strong wings, I decided. Wings that could weather any storm, face any threat, and still soar.
