Page 65 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

I prop the phone against the sugar jar so Isla can watch the kitchen come awake.

Frost films the windows, a thin lace that curls at the corners. I set a pot on the back eye, fill it with water, and watch the frost shrink back as steam rises.

The stove ticks, coughs once, then settles into a steady breath.

I place formula on the counter and warm water in a small pan and swirl the spoon without thinking, the same circles I used to draw in the air above Isla’s crib when she could not sleep unless the world moved.

“Is Marisa there?” Isla asks in a whisper that is not whispering. “Is she still pretty from yesterday.”

“Sleeping,” I tell her, lowering my voice as if the lodge itself will hear me and be kind. “Still pretty. Extra pretty, I think, because she is tired and brave.”

She smiles like she understands tired and brave. “Tell her I said the chickens miss her. Cleopatra pecked my boot on purpose.”

“I will deliver the message.” I blow her a kiss. She sends three back and they land all over the stove, which feels correct.

The twins are in a nursery across from Marisa’s room, door propped open, the old hinges wrapped in cloth so they do not complain.

I built those cribs years ago, one for Isla, one for the child who did not make it, and I oiled the wood last night while the storm pressed its face to the glass.

Now, two new small bodies breathe under quilts Abuela sewed from old aprons and wedding tablecloth scraps.

One boy is spread like a starfish, fingers open to the world. The other sleeps in a tight comma, a thinker even in his dreams.

“Buenos días, caballeros,” I murmur, hand to the doorframe so I remember to be quiet.

I check the heat with my palm.

Warm. Safe.

I tuck a stray corner of quilt back under a chin that will someday argue with me and lose.

I step back into the hall and dial Cara. She answers on the second ring with sleep still in her voice and a laugh already forming.

“You always call at dawn when it’s important,” she says. “Who did you rescue this time, Santiago.”

“The mountain brought me a mother with two babies and six loaves that smell like heaven,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We had a night. She is sleeping now. I need you when the roads apologize. Not right away. When it is safe.”

“I figured from the wind last night,” she says, already in motion. I can hear the clack of her kettle, the shuffle of slippers. “I can be there as soon as it settles. I will bring a new sling to make up for the one you refused to give back in 2020.”

“I returned that sling,” I lie, which makes her cackle.

“You did not,” she says. “It is in your closet with the silk ties. I know you, cariño. How are the babies?”

“Hungry by turns. Warm now. Loud in a way that makes a man believe the world still wants him busy.” I take the phone to the window.

The sky is pewter.

The ridge wears a shawl of white. “And Cara. They are…ours. Maybe. Probably. The math is not done. It may never be. I do not care.”

“I never thought you would,” she says. There is pride in her voice, the kind that makes my chest go hot. “You were always the kind who knows love is a verb. I will come when the ice stops being dramatic.”

“Gracias,” I say. “And Cara. Thank you for all the times you saved me from boiling a bottle.”

“You never boiled a bottle. You set timers and stared at water,” she says, then softens. “Kiss their heads for me. Kiss the mother twice.”

“I will,” I promise.

I hang up and set the bottle rack on the counter like an altar.