Page 32 of Welded Defender
Brett knows where I am.
The thought tears through me, sharper than the panic of oversleeping. He knows. He was here. Close enough that if I’d walked a few more feet I would’ve seen his face through the car window.
I bury my face in my hands, forcing myself to breathe, to focus on anything other than the fear clawing through my chest. Slowly, sound filters in: the low rumble of voices downstairs.
Landon’s, steady and deep. Another, sharper and teasing—Wes. And Becket’s gruffer tone weaving between them.
Normal conversation. Casual.
I hold onto that sound like a lifeline.
I shove back the blankets, pull on yesterday’s sweater, twist my hair into a messy knot, and force myself toward the door before I can lose my nerve. My legs feel unsteady as I head downstairs, but I keep moving, one shaky step at a time.
The smell of coffee hits me first. Rich, earthy. The hum of voices stops the moment I step into the kitchen.
Three pairs of eyes turn toward me at once.
“Morning,” Landon says quietly. His voice is low, unreadable. He’s leaning against the counter, mug in hand, shirt rumpled with faint grease smears on the sleeves.
“Afternoon, technically,” Wes adds with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess we’re not exciting enough to get you out of bed.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I overslept; I didn’t mean to—I should’ve been down here. I don’t want my issues messing with the garage or slowing anyone down?—”
Landon cuts me off with a shake of his head. “You needed it. We were fine. Trust me, the place won’t fall apart without you for a few hours.”
“Exactly. I was just teasing.” Wes lifts his mug like he’s making a toast. “If we can’t survive one morning without a woman to babysit us, we’re in serious trouble.”
Becket snorts into his coffee. “You’re in serious trouble either way.”
Wes grins wider. “Fair point.”
The tension in my chest loosens a fraction. I let out a shaky breath and step toward the counter. Becket nudges a fresh mug toward me, steam curling faintly from the surface.
“Thanks,” I mumble, voice barely audible, and lower myself onto one of the stools.
Conversation picks up again, but it’s subdued, like someone turned the volume down. Becket grumbles about a parts delivery delayed by the snow. Wes jokes about the mailman being too scared to make it up the mountain.
I try to listen, to let their normal back-and-forth lull me, but my chest stays tight. It feels like there isn’t enough air in the room.
My gaze snags on the garbage bag near the back door—tied off, full. Something small. Ordinary. I could handle that. One simple, normal task to prove I’m not broken, that I’m not just a problem everyone has to tiptoe around.
“I’ll take this out,” I say quickly, sliding off the stool. My voice sounds too eager.
Before I can step outside, Becket’s suddenly there. He moves fast for someone his size, his hand closing gently over the top of the bag. “I got it.”
“It’s fine, I can?—”
“Marcy.” His voice stays calm, but the weight behind it makes me stumble over my words. “It’s freezing out. Finish your coffee.”
The word freezing isn’t what he means. I can see it in his eyes—he doesn’t want me outside.
I swallow hard, fingers tightening around the handle before I force myself to let go. He takes the bag without any struggle, just smooth efficiency, and disappears out the door.
The sound of it closing echoes in my chest.
It’s just garbage. Just a bag. But my throat closes up anyway.
I sink back onto the stool, arms wrapping tight around myself.
