Page 15 of Welded Defender
Wes leans towards her. “If you can make him book his brake job too, I’ll personally name my firstborn after you.”
“Please don’t,” she says, but she’s smiling for real now.
Wes salutes and vanishes back through the bay door.
Marcy gathers the signed slip, lines it up with the invoice, and slides both into the “Paid” tray. She’s careful about it, like order is a way to keep the ground level.
I make myself step back. “I’ll—uh—be in bay two if you need anything.”
She tilts her head. “If I need you, I’ll ask.”
“Right.” I nod once more, absorbing the boundary. “I’ll wait to be asked.”
As I turn away, she calls after me. “Landon?”
I glance back.
“Thank you,” she says. “For the backup. Just… next time, let me try first.”
I nod. “Deal.”
By the time the sun starts dipping, the shop slows down. Wes leans against the counter, sipping the last of his coffee like it hasn’t been sitting around for hours.
“I’m making sweet n sour meatballs tonight,” he announces. “Is everyone coming to eat?”
He aims it at all of us, but his eyes flick toward Marcy.
She hesitates. For a second, I almost think she’ll say yes. But then she shakes her head, polite but firm. “Thanks, Wes. That’s nice of you, but I think I’ll just head upstairs tonight.”
Wes doesn’t push, just shrugs. “Offer stands. Anytime.”
She gives him a small smile, gathers her things, and heads for the door.
“I’m gonna head home too,” Joon says. “I want to come in and get started on Marcy’s car early.”
“Trying to get rid of her already?” Wes teases.
Joon rolls his eyes. “Just trying to be helpful. I’m happy for her to stay as long as she wants.” He tosses a wave and heads out.
I exhale, scrub a hand over my face, and grab my jacket. Wes leans against the counter, drumming his fingers on the laminate as I zip up halfway.
"You coming home?" His voice stays light, but his eyes follow me a beat too long. “You look like you could use an early bedtime. Those bags make you look closer to eighty than thirty-two.”
I roll my eyes. “Jeeze, thanks."
He grins. “Anytime.” He shoves open the door. “Don’t take too long, I can't promise there will be any food left if you do.”
I grunt in reply and push through the door into the chill evening air. My boots echo on the stairs as I climb to the apartment above the shop. I stand outside her door for a second, listening. Nothing. No footsteps, no clatter of dishes—just the faint hum of the old fridge inside.
I raise a hand and knock gently.
A beat later, her voice: “Yeah?”
"It's me," I say. "Just checking in."
The door opens a crack, then wider. She's standing there in an oversized gray sweater that slips off one shoulder, her hair pulled back in a messy knot that leaves wisps framing her face. Her fingers grip the edge of the door, knuckles slightly white.
"I'm fine," she says, the words coming out in a rush of breath.
