Then she unhooked the chain.
Unlocked the deadbolt.
And opened the door.
“Come in,” she said, voice thin. “Before you freeze.”
They filed in like they’d been taught how to enter a stranger’s home without breaking it.
Boots wiped on the mat.
Helmets stacked neatly by the wall.
Hands kept visible.
Voices stayed low.
Her small house filled up fast—too many shoulders, too much leather, too much breath in cold air.
But nobody touched her.
Nobody pushed.
Nobody even looked at her like she was something to take.
Mike shut the door and turned the lock.
Keisha stiffened—until he held both palms up.
“Keeping the cold out,” he said quietly. “And keeping you safe while we’re here.”
Marcus peeked from behind Keisha’s arm, wide-eyed.
A biker with soft, older eyes gave him a little wave.
“Hey there, little man,” he said, like he was greeting his own grandkid. “I’m Tommy.”
