Page 31 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Deacon gathers the glasses and takes them to the kitchen.
He cleans when he is thinking because it allows his mind to build things in quiet.
Roman remains where he was, a mountain in a chair, the kind of stillness you learn from years of learning what moves and what does not.
I move to the stove, because warmth belongs in hands when a night looks like this, and put a pot on.
Real hot chocolate, not the cheap packet.
Milk in first, slow. Cocoa whisked until the surface shines. Cinnamon added at the end so it blooms. One tiny square of dark chocolate for depth.
I think about adding a hint of chili in honor of certain secrets that live behind false bricks, then decide tonight should be soft and sweet.
Marisa watches from the end of the counter with her fingers wrapped around her own elbows.
The sweater she is wearing has a loose weave that looks like it will hold only if someone keeps an eye on it.
I pour a mug and slide it to her.
Our hands touch for half a breath.
The touch is nothing, an ordinary exchange between people who share a kitchen, and it is everything my body has wanted for a year.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Always,” I answer.
She lifts the cup to her mouth, blowing gently.
I want to be the steam that curls against her lip.
I want to be the warmth that settles in her chest.
She drinks. Her eyes close for a moment then open, softer.
“How is she,” she asks, nodding to the window, where the storm rages outside the lodge.
“Safe,” I say. “And warm. She’ll eat too many pancakes there in the morning.”
“Pancakes sound nice,” she says. There is a smile there that does not hurt. “If your kitchen trusts me.”
“This kitchen already set a place for you,” I say. “It has been waiting.”
She looks down at her mug as if the swirl in the chocolate might tell her what to say next.
Roman shifts his weight in the chair, not a warning, not a claim, just a reminder that he is in the room.
Deacon returns with the last towel and drapes it over a chair back.
He pretends to check the back door latch, eyes quiet.
I set my own mug aside because my hands do not need it.
They need her.
Not to take, not to trap, only to be allowed to rest against the person they missed.
I move closer.
