Page 43 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

A gasped thank you in Spanish against my mouth.

A tremor through his arms.

A rush that empties him and fills the room at the same time.

He hides his face in the curve of my neck and laughs once, soft and shocked, like it always surprises him how good it can be.

Roman’s hand slides to the back of my head. “You did well,” he tells me, pride warm and unhidden.

Deacon exhales a prayer that does not belong to any church I have ever been to.

His lips brush the crown of my hair, careful like a man setting down a tool he respects.

The quiet after is generous.

We do not jump away from each other. We do not apologize for anything.

We breathe like people who have made good use of a night while the storm edits the rest of the world out.

Cruz kisses my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, then rests his forehead on mine. He is smiling like a man who plans to remember this forever. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi,” I answer, light-headed and very alive.

Roman steps back first because he is the one who knows when to move the next piece on the board.

He reaches for a clean kitchen towel, hands it to me with the same seriousness he hands anyone a weapon, and turns the tap for warm water.

Deacon hands me water in a glass he wiped dry like it mattered.

Cruz pulls my sweater from where it waits by the mugs, shakes it out with tenderness that makes my throat ache, and helps me slide it on without making the moment less naked.

“Sit,” Roman says, patting the counter like a doctor who knows how to be gentle.

I hop up.

He crouches to fix a sock that has lost the battle with my ankle.

He smooths it over the bone with a concentration that would be funny if it did not make my eyes sting.

Deacon leans against the stove and watches my face like a monitor, measuring color and breath and the way my hands move now that I am not holding onto anything. “Anything light-headed, sweetheart,” he asks.

“Only the good kind,” I say, and sip the water because he will not ask twice.

Cruz grins at the sound of that and kisses my knee through the knit. “We can fix the other kind with soup.”

“Says the medic,” Roman answers, standing again and rolling his shoulders like the air returned to his body in stages.

“I said soup,” Cruz repeats, already at the pantry. “Not orthopedics.”

Late-night ramen happens the way everything with them happens.

Quickly, competently, and with more care than any of them will admit.

Roman lifts a stockpot to the stove and fills it like he is fueling an engine.

Deacon finds the good noodles and checks the date on the package even though he knows it by heart.

Cruz pulls green onions and an old head of bok choy from the crisper and kisses the leaves like he can make them perk up with love.