Page 145 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Deacon says the constellations in a voice like he is reading blueprints for the sky.
Cara wraps us in scarves and says, “Inside now, mis luceros,” and we do not argue because the fire calls us.
The fire makes the stones look like sleepy lions.
Churro sighs so loudly at the hearth it sounds like someone let air out of a balloon.
Mama sits with her feet tucked under her and the boys, who are us, folded over her like little commas.
Papa Roman reads a paragraph from a big book in a nice important tone that reminds me of espresso.
Papa Deacon fixes the hinge on the toy box without looking like fixing is work.
Papa Cruz rubs my back in circles that say everything without talking.
Sometimes I think about people who ask where our real dad is.
The answer is we have three.
We have all.
We have a house where men change diapers and label jars and cook at midnight and check door latches like prayers.
We have a bakery where grownups cry happy and pretend not to.
We have a lodge where rules are carved in wood and also on the backs of our hearts.
We do not need a bloodline to tell us anything we don’t know.
Bedtime comes the way it always does: first slowly, then all at once.
The fire settles like it is tired of being exciting.
The dishes are done because Roman does not sleep if a plate is lonely.
Cara hums in the kitchen, cleaning the day without washing it away.
Isla kisses our cheeks and says she will teach us how to make stained glass tomorrow from melted sugar.
Mama lifts us at the same time and we pretend to be heavier than science allows.
She says, “My little profiteroles,” and the name still fits even though we are big.
Upstairs, the hall is warm and night presses against the windows like a friendly giant.
Our bunk beds smell like soap and laundry and a story we already know but want again.
Roman tucks the blanket just so.
Deacon checks the night light then pretends he did not.
Cruz smooths our hair and we purr like a cat accidentally.
“Goodnight,” Mama says in Italian and also in the secret language of hands. We say it back in all our languages: English and Spanish and Cookie.
The door goes almost closed.
It does not click because no door here ever shuts all the way on purpose.
