Page 76 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
A run that went around our part of the world for two seasons when a certain tailor did a favor for a certain crew.
We banned that hardware off our cuts when we broke charter and scrubbed anything that smelled like that history.
I turn it in my palm.
My husky brain wants to run—chase tracks, pull a sled, scream at the tree line.
I fold that urge under the shepherd’s order. Bag. Label.PANTRY FLOOR—BUTTON.I keep moving.
Back door hinge first.
It ticks on cold mornings; that’s a small tell the wrong ears could turn into a map.
I pull the pins, wipe them clean, work in graphite, reinstall.
The door swings and sighs like a throat that changed its mind.
Good.
The shelf Marisa bumped with her hip when she reached for sugar—second bracket had loosened from the plaster.
Two anchors.
Reset.
It doesn’t wobble when I lean my weight on it.
The loose tile behind the stove:
I pry it up, clean out the bed, reset it with thinset from the pantry hammer box, press until the squeeze-out beads like icing.
I will caulk it when the house is quiet. Fixing is prayer when you don’t have time to kneel.
The twins complain at a volume I can respect.
I wash my hands and step into their room.
Luca is trying to swallow his fist and failing with gusto. Gabe looks at me like I’m late to my own inspection.
“Afternoons are hard,” I tell them, picking Gabe up first because his eyebrows are louder.
I count breaths against my chest.
Fifteen in ten seconds.
Multiply by six.
Ninety. Fine.
He calms like he recognizes the math.
Luca gets a hand on my beard and clutches like a man rappelling. “You can’t yank the anchor, pal,” I inform him, and get a gummy smile for my trouble.
Marisa appears in the doorway in that big flannel like she stole it on purpose, eyes soft and wary both.
She reaches for Luca, hesitates. I offer him over. Her hands are steady now.
That steadiness matters more than any camera.
