Page 138 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

Isla lifts her chin. “I accept footnotes.”

Roman pushes a tiny cup across to an old timer in a Carhartt jacket who’s been trying to look indifferent to espresso for four weeks.

“Tiny coffee,” he says. “Drink with dignity.”

The old timer sips, blinks, swallows. “Hot,” he says.

“Correct,” Roman answers.

We code-switch all day.

Locals who remember our rougher years come in, watch, learn our new rhythm, and let it into their bones the way bread does when you eat it warm.

Riders from allied clubs stop on their way through, leaving their cuts on hooks by the door because in here you are a person first.

A state trooper once came for cinnamon rolls and left with three extra for “the boys on the bridge.” We did not mind. We like when bridges hold.

A woman enters, scans the bakery, and gives a experienced nod of approval.

At the counter, Marisa squeals out a “Lidia!” and they hug.

Lidia tells her how proud she is, and we can’t help but agree with Marisa’s old boss.

Tears dot Marisa’s eyes when the woman leaves, and I steal a moment to kiss the tears away.

By two the rush softens.

Cara slips out to check the hens and returns with an egg in each palm like a magician. “Wild apples are budding,” she says, andDeacon becomes a landscape plan while standing still. Roman wipes the counter with unnecessary menace because someone mentioned cold brew in a tone he did not appreciate.

I wash my hands, put a pot on low, and start a batch of hot chocolate because the clouds are thinking about a gentle rain that will make the road steam.

An older man in a green cap taps the glass case and points at the lemon bars. “I want the corner,” he says, “the one with the personality.”

“Personality,” Marisa repeats. “I like that. Luca has personality. Gabe has plans.”

“Which one bites?” he asks, smiling.

“Both,” I say. “Only one apologizes.”

He pays with five singles and a story about missing trains that makes me miss my mother so hard it folds me for a second.

Marisa slides a knuckle along my wrist, a small hello to the hurt, and the ache sets down its bag and agrees to come sit with us instead of rush out into the rain.

Later, when the boys wake, we make a theater of tasting crumb.

Luca slaps his hands on the tray and squeals at a blueberry muffin like it owes him money.

Gabe pinches a speck between finger and thumb, tastes it, considers, nods once.

“Este señor will be dangerous,” Roman says, which is Roman for proud.

A woman in a coat the color of a gull’s wing stands just inside the door and looks at the room like it might decide to like her.

Marisa goes to her first.

“Welcome,” she says, pouring warmth into the space between them. “You look like you need something sweet and the sort of seat that does not judge your boots.”

The woman laughs into her scarf and lets her shoulders drop. “Yes,” she says. “Exactly that.”