Page 67 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

“Of course he is.” I tilt the bottle so the formula does not drown a greedy throat. “Do not let him brood up there. He will start a war with the clouds.”

“He is brooding exactly as much as the weather allows,” Deacon says, but his mouth softens at the corners when he watches the baby’s jaw work. “Do you want me to take one?”

“I want you to drink coffee and pretend you hate that you love this,” I say.

He snorts, goes to the machine, and commits sacrilege by setting up a cold brew jar for later.

I choose to ignore it until Roman is in the room to perform his lecture.

Life is about the small joys.

I carry both boys to the big window.

We watch the frost melt in lines like writing.

The ridge breathes mist.

A crow lands on the fence, head cocked, and decides we are not worth talking to.

I swallow a laugh so the bottle stays steady.

Later, when the boy in the sling has fallen asleep and the other has eaten himself into a philosophical mood, I tuck them both back in the cribs, kiss each soft brow, and stand for a minute to look at them.

My chest pulls tight.

It is always like this.

Love is not tidy.

It is not subtle.

It is not clever.

It is a hand closing gently around your whole life and squeezing until you remember that excellence does not matter if no one is warm.

On my way back through the hall I stop at Marisa’s door.

She is on her side, one arm thrown over her head, mouth soft, breathing even.

I do not step inside, only lean at the jamb and watch the rise and fall of her chest.

Her hair is a dark spill over my old pillowcase.

She looks young like this, and older, both at once, which is what happens to a woman who has carried too much and handed none of it off.

“Sleep,” I tell her quietly. “We will hold the line.”

The back door sticks a little when I open it.

The wind has a taste of cut glass.

I step out for wood, because the hearth eats more than we think when a house is full of nerves.

The pile is drifted over, a tidy hill I made yesterday now dressed for church.

I brush the top layer aside with my forearm, pick up two pieces, then two more, because any excuse to stay outside and think like a snow creature is an excuse I take.

On the way back my eyes snag on something wrong.