Page 21 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
He does not apologize. “Symbolic,” I say dryly, kneeling to fit the pieces together with two fingers. “You arrive messy and leave me to sweep.”
He mutters about respect and stomps down the stairs.
I close the door, the latch clicking.
The apartment exhales and I, in turn, inhale the familiarity of coffee and orange peel and whatever is left of my pride after a morning spent arguing with family.
The radiator clanks without conviction.
The window over the sink fogs as I breathe on it, then clears enough to show a slice of winter sky the color of pewter.
I pour cold brew over ice because I like the clean bite of it, and because a very large, very opinionated man in the mountains hates it, which is reason enough to keep the ritual.
I can see him in my mind so easily that it feels like a memory happening in real time.
Roman folds his arms, looks at the glass, and says espresso is the only acceptable caffeine delivery system, then proceeds to make a tiny cup that could fuel a truck and hands it to me with a look that says there is a right way to live.
I sip, then text a photo of the cold brew to our chat with a caption that reads,a perfectly respectable beverage.
The typing dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Deacon’s response arrives first, a single black square that means he is laughing in a way that does not disturb the surface of the water.
Then a photo of a mason jar on a shelf with a sticky note that saystotally not cold brew, do not drink, and a time stamp from two in the morning.
I can hear his voice without the phone telling me anything.
He brews it nightly, simply to watch Roman rant, then drinks it with a priestly calm that makes Roman’s left eye twitch.
Roman finally replies with a skull, then a tiny cup, then a second skull. I smile into my glass.
Cruz sends a picture of his daughter Isla in a star sweater, holding a whisk like a scepter.
Under it he writes,queen decrees both are allowed if there are cookies, and the decree has icing fingerprints on it.
I smile at the picture in a way that makes my eyes crinkle at the corners, because Isla is just that kind of a kid; all kindnessand quick feeling, remarkable given how long it’s been since her mother passed.
That is the kind of year it has been.
Not daily, never constant, but steady like the way mountains hold a horizon.
Check ins that taste like sugar and smoke, long texts about nothing that say more than they admit.
A photo of fresh snow on a timber beam.
A recipe shared. A song. A quiet call when I am up late prepping dough and someone else is out riding a border road in weather the rest of the world has decided to sleep through.
The ache between us softens, then sharpens, then decides to be patient again.
I learn what each of them takes with coffee and what each of them will eat for breakfast when left to their own devices.
Roman will not admit to pancakes, then eats them without comment if there is enough lemon zest in the batter.
Deacon likes his eggs soft and his toast burned because he claims it tastes honest.
Cruz keeps a recipe for molé behind a false brick in the lodge pantry like a secret door in a story.
He swears the day I make it will culminate in the best meal of his life.
