Page 29 of Welded Defender
We start moving, if you can call it that. I shuffle. He glides. Every time I falter, he adjusts—never impatient, never letting me fall.
“Used to run drills on this rink,” he says after a minute, voice low enough it feels like a secret. “Before school. After practice. Air so cold my lungs burned.”
I picture him younger, faster, chasing a puck across the ice with the same focused intensity he carries now. It fits perfectly.
“Why’d you stop?” I ask.
His silence stretches, filled only by the scrape of our blades against ice. “Life happened.”
I want to push for more, but his expression warns me not to. So instead, I say, “You’re really good.”
He huffs out something close to a laugh. “And you’re not as bad as you think.”
“Liar.”
“Stubborn,” he counters, but there’s warmth in his voice.
For the first time, I realize I’m actually gliding. Not well, not fast—but moving. His hand never leaves mine. His other drifts from my waist when I find my balance, but always hovers close, ready to catch me.
I glance up, meeting his eyes. The rink lights catch in them, green bright against the winter dark. My stomach flips.
By the time we circle back, my thighs burn and my face feels stretched tight, frozen in place. My fingers scramble for the railing, gripping cold metal like a lifeline.
“You did it,” he says, his voice low near my ear.
“I survived it,” I manage between gulps of winter air.
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, then breaks into a full smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. “Same thing.”
We trade our skates for boots and find our way to the bonfire. The flames pop and crackle, sending a constellation of orange embers spiralling upward. Snow creeps halfway up the bench legs, but my face burns from the heat. I peel the soggy wool mittens from my fingers, the skin beneath pink and puckered. As I stretch my hands toward the fire, his knuckle grazes my pinky—so light I almost think I’ve imagined it. But then it happens again, deliberate this time, the rough edge of his thumbfinding the soft hollow between my fingers. My lungs forget their rhythm.
Slowly, carefully, he threads his fingers through mine.
The world goes still.
It’s not dramatic—not a kiss, not a confession. Just his hand, rough and steady, wrapping around mine like it belongs there. But it feels monumental.
My heart thunders. My throat tightens. I can’t look at him, but I can’t let go either.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge it. Just keeps staring at the fire like nothing’s changed. Except everything has.
I’ve spent months avoiding touch, dreading it. And now all I can think about is how warm his hand is, how right it feels, how my chest feels lighter even though my pulse is racing.
“What do we have here?” Wes’s voice cuts through the moment. “Two sickening little love birds.”
I startle, instinctively trying to pull away. But Landon’s grip tightens—subtle, certain. He doesn’t let go.
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Wes drops onto the other bench with his cocoa. “Seriously, though. Happy for you, rookie. But if you start making googly eyes, I’ll hurl.”
“Deal with it,” Landon mutters, his thumb brushing lightly across my knuckles, sending another jolt through me.
Wes smirks at us over his cup. “Fine. I’ll allow it. But if I have to call in sick tomorrow, don’t blame me.”
I laugh, and Landon’s hand stays wrapped around mine, steady as the fire.
Later, the gazebo lights blur into stars as we sit by the dying flames. A child’s laugh rings out somewhere behind us, followed by the scrape of skates against ice. When Landon shifts beside me, his thumb traces a small circle against my palm, and I find myself leaning into him, the wool of his coat rough against mycheek. I don’t flinch when a log collapses in the fire, sending sparks skyward. I don’t scan the crowd for exits. I just watch the flames dance, feel his pulse against my wrist, and breathe—a full breath that fills my lungs completely for what feels like the first time in years.
