Page 12 of Welded Defender
When he pushes off the doorframe and takes a step closer, I don’t move away.
"You hungry?" he asks. "Joon picked up some sandwiches when he got the groceries for the apartment."
For the apartment. Not for me. The way he says it makes me feel like less of a charity case. The groceries are just basics: milk, a carton of eggs, tea and a loaf of bread. I made a mental note to repay Joon the moment he set them in front of me. Part of me wants to refuse a sandwich, to prove I can take care of myself,but my stomach growls traitorously. The sandwich will likely taste like pity, but it’ll also taste like food, and I haven't eaten since yesterday.
“I could eat,” I finally admit, my voice soft.
His lips curve up on one side, a small dimple appearing in his cheek. "Good. Why don't I let you finish getting settled and you can come down when you're ready?" He turns toward the door.
My hand shoots out before I can stop it and grips his arm. "Landon?"
He pauses, one foot already in the hallway. His shoulders shift as he turns back.
I drop my hand. "Thank you. Really."
His eyes meet mine, and I forget to breathe for a second. The radiator ticks in the silence. A flush creeps up my neck as he stands there, the muscles in his jaw working. He blinks, then dips his chin in a single nod.
"You're welcome, Marcy."
CHAPTER 8
Marcy
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the quiet.
Not the hum of a furnace kicking in at the wrong hour, not the creak of pipes, not the muffled voices of strangers through paper-thin walls. Just…quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around me like a blanket, still and steady.
For a second, I lie there blinking at the slanted morning light spilling through the blinds. It takes me a moment to remember where I am—the bachelor apartment above the garage. My apartment.
The thought is strange, not quite real.
I roll onto my side and grab my phone, checking the time. The clock reads 7:20. My first day of work. My stomach tightens with nerves.I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cold under my feet, and hug my arms around myself for a moment. I take my time, showering and having a breakfast of eggs and toast. I carry my mug of tea down with me when I go down at eight-thirty.
The garage hits me with a wall of scents—motor oil, dark roast coffee, rubber. I clutch my cardigan tighter against the chill that seeps through the concrete floor. Behind the counter standsLandon, clipboard tilted toward the light, a pencil balanced behind one ear, his profile cut sharp against the morning.
His eyes flick up. The corner of his mouth lifts—barely there, then gone. "Morning."
“Morning,” I manage, smoothing a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
Before I can say more, the door to the shop bangs open and a man with ginger hair and grease already smeared across his cheek barrels in, grinning. “You must be Marcy.”
He wipes his palm twice against a red shop rag that's more stain than cloth, then thrusts his hand toward me. His grin is easy, boyish.
“Wes,” he says. “Resident troublemaker, part-time mechanic, full-time pain in the ass.”
“Don’t forget comedian,” Landon mutters without looking up.
“Ah, yes. Comedian.” Wes gives me an exaggerated wink. “Welcome to Five Brother’s Garage. I promise we only haze new employees on Fridays.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, tension loosening a notch.
Joon arrives a few minutes later, followed by a man who has to duck slightly through the doorway. His shoulders stretch his flannel shirt taut across the back, sandy blonde hair gathered in a knot at his nape. "Becket," he says when Landon introduces us, the single word landing like a stone dropped in still water. He nods once, eyes the color of worn denim sweeping over me, lingering a beat too long on my trembling fingers around the mug. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
“Good to meet you,” Becket says. “We’ve heard a lot about you already.”
I glance nervously toward Landon, but his expression is unreadable.
By the time the introductions are over, the lobby feels full—each man bringing his own energy. Wes tossing jokes like confetti, Joon leaning quietly against the counter, Becket standing solid and still as though he’s holding the floor in place.
