Page 11 of Welded Defender
My new home.
The bachelor apartment above the garage isn’t much to look at, but it’s now mine. Well, technically it belongs to the garage, but still—somewhere that isn’t Brett’s or the backseat of my car.
Landon sets the suitcases down inside the door and steps back, hands sliding into his pockets. He doesn’t hover, doesn’t crowd me, just waits. His presence is steady, like an anchor I didn’t realize I needed.
I grip the bags tighter and step over the threshold. The air is stale, but the space itself surprises me. White-painted walls, a sloped ceiling with wooden beams, and a small window that looks out over the back lot. Dust motes dance in the light cuttingthrough the blinds. A kitchenette sits against one wall—tiny two burner stove, sink, a fridge that hums loudly like it’s determined to prove it still works. There’s a worn couch pushed up against the far wall, and a double bed with mismatched sheets tucked into the corner.
It isn’t glamorous. But it’s warm, private and it’s safe.
My throat goes tight.
“Not much, but it does the job,” Landon says, scratching the back of his neck. “We keep it for when one of us needs to crash. Never really set it up beyond the basics.”
I put the groceries on the counter and hug my arms around myself. The room feels a little like me—rough around the edges, but still standing. “It’s…better than anything I expected. Thank you.”
His gaze lingers on me for a beat, softening. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. You’re doing us a huge solid helping us out. Nova’s been running herself ragged trying to cover shifts. Having you around will help lessen the burden.”
His words—doing us a favor, lessen the burden—settle somewhere beneath my ribs, and I have to swallow twice before I can speak. My fingertips trace the dusty edge of the windowsill as I stare at the blinds, counting the slats to steady myself. The pressure builds behind my eyes.
"Still. Thank you." My voice catches. I clear my throat. "For letting me stay."
He dips his chin, eyes sliding away from mine as he shifts his weight to the other foot. "Why don't I grab the rest of your stuff?"
I should say no, that I’ve got it, but the thought of not making two more trips up and down the stairs makes me sag with relief. “Okay. I’ll start unpacking.”
He leaves, and the door clicks shut behind him. I exhale, pressing my palms against the cool countertop. The silence wraps around me like a blanket, broken only by the hum of thefridge. For the first time in days—maybe weeks, I’m not bracing for the next blow.
I unzip my suitcase, the sound loud in the quiet room. My hands shake slightly as I lift out my faded blue sweater—the one with the small hole in the left sleeve—and smooth it before placing it in the top drawer. One by one, I arrange my meager collection: three t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, the black cardigan Brett always hated. Each drawer closes with a soft thud that feels strangely final.
Brett replaced most of my clothes with ones he preferred shortly after we moved in together. These are the ones I managed to save and hide away before he found them. I left the wardrobe he picked behind when I left. I didn’t want to take anything he paid for—didn't want him to be able to use anything against me.
When Landon returns, I'm on tiptoes at the window, my sweater sleeve darkened with dust as I wipe circles into the glass.
"You don't waste time," he says, setting the plastic totes near the bed. His eyes move from the open dresser to the small stack of books I've lined up on the nightstand.
I pause and shrug. "I guess I feel better when the things around me are orderly.”
Landon leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me fuss with the blanket on the bed. “You sure you’re okay with this space? Couch folds out if you want more room.”
I glance at him. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and he doesn’t bother brushing it back. There’s no judgment in his tone, no pity, just quiet concern.
“I’m okay.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “It’s…more than okay, actually. I thought I’d be stuck in my car until I figured things out.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Not on my watch.”
Something stirs in my chest at the firmness in his voice. Like he’s drawing a line I didn’t ask for but desperately needed. My defences wobble, and I tug at the edge of the blanket just to keep my hands busy.
I run my finger along the windowsill and hold it up, showing him the gray smudge. "When was the last time anyone dusted in here? 2015?"
He huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Probably. The guys and I aren't exactly...thorough."
"I'll take care of it." The words tumble out before I think. "I mean—since I'm staying here." I grab a tissue from my pocket and wipe another streak of dust from the windowsill, leaving a clean path through the gray film.
Landon's shoulders relax a fraction. The corner of his mouth lifts, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. "You know where the cleaning supplies are if you need them. And if you want help, I’ll be around."
I duck my head, focusing on folding the dusty tissue into smaller and smaller squares. My cheeks burn. "Thanks."
The radiator clicks on with a metallic ping. I glance up to find him still watching me, feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands loose at his sides. The floorboards don't creak under his weight. My shoulders drop an inch from where they've been hovering near my ears all day.
