Page 117 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

We pack slow.

We share slices with two city workers who have been refilling salt buckets all morning.

We give the band a tray of madeleines and listen to their fiddler flirt with O Holy Night.

My apron is dusted with sugar and a little glory. My hands smell like orange peel and rum.

At the edge of the square, I catch a shadow pausing where the lights do not quite reach.

It is nothing and it is something.

He is already turning away by the time I focus. I taste metal and swallow it.

On the way to the parking lot, Roman touches my wrist. It is brief and careful and still manages to ground me like a nail in a beam. “You did that,” he says.

“We did,” I answer.

It turns into a promise as it leaves my mouth.

I am tired of running.

I will stay. I will bake. I will feed.

I will find whoever keeps unscrewing the light bulbs in my house and I will teach them about candles.

We drive back under a sky that is the color of cold steel and new beginnings.

The ribbon rides in my pocket like a warm coin.

The babies sleep.

Isla sings to the flashlight as if it can appreciate harmonies.

Cara texts a prospect to put the kettle on.

The bikes run clean.

The lodge lights appear through the trees like a map you can trust.

I am not done being scared.

But I am done letting fear choose my route.

The flavor of victory is home.

It sticks to your ribs.

It keeps you warm when some man with a nice jacket and bad intentions thinks he can make you small.

He cannot. Not anymore.

Back in the lodge, as I hold the ribbon over the kitchen table, Roman’s phone buzzes.

He looks down and his face closes like a book.

He walks to the back room without a word.

I wipe sugar from my sleeve and tell myself not to follow.