Page 34 of Welded Defender
Landon exhales slowly, his arms uncrossing. He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “It’s true.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t look at me right away. When his voice comes, it’s careful. “Because when I care about someone, I… overdo it. I hover. Protect too much. Give too much. Sometimes I’ve just been… too much for people.” He shrugs. “And other times I’ve attracted the kind of women who liked being looked after but didn’t give much back.”
I blink, surprised by the raw honesty in his tone.
“I’ve been taken advantage of before,” he admits quietly. “Women who liked the steady guy who’d fix their problems, pay their bills, patch their lives together. I thought it was caring. Turns out, it was just me being used.”
The weight in his words settles heavy on my chest.
“So I stopped,” he finishes. “Figured maybe I wasn’t meant for relationships. Not if all I could offer was being the guardrail.”
My throat tightens. “That doesn’t sound like being the guardrail. That sounds like… someone giving the wrong peoplethe best parts of themselves. You’re steady, Landon. Safe. That isn’t too much.” I swallow and push forward before I can talk myself out of it. “In fact, that sounds pretty good to me.”
His eyes darken, pupils widening slightly against the green. His hand lifts—hesitates midair—then continues its journey. The pad of his thumb grazes my cheekbone, rough skin catching slightly against mine. His palm settles against my jaw, the scent of motor oil and pine soap rising from his wrist. The truck’s heater hums softly. Outside, snow taps against the windshield.
My breath catches at his touch. I lift my hand to cover his.
His emerald eyes hold mine, and the corner of his mouth flicks up. “Good thing I’m steady then,” he murmurs.
CHAPTER 19
Marcy
The smell of garlic hits me the second I step inside the house. Not the faint, burned-around-the-edges kind Brett used to make when he “cooked” once a year, but warm and rich and layered—the kind that feels intentional. Thought out. Comforting.
The house itself is different from what I expected with three men living here. It’s nothing like the apartment above the garage. It’s warmer, fuller somehow. A lived-in place. The hallway opens to a kitchen lined with honey-colored wooden cabinets and cluttered shelves—mismatched mugs, a stack of board games crammed between two cookbooks, a row of boots abandoned by the door. Messy in the way that means lived in. Messy in the way that means home.
“Welcome to Casa Disaster,” Wes announces, sweeping his arm wide like a host on a game show. “Ignore the fact that I may or may not have vacuumed with a broom earlier.”
“You can’t vacuum with a broom,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Wes points a spatula at me like it’s a sword. “Spoken like someone who’s never seen me multitask.”
Behind me, Landon snorts. He doesn’t say much, but when he helps me out of my coat, his hands brush my shoulders—steady, careful—and the tiniest part of me unclenches.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Wes says, retreating to the stove. “Chef Wesley is in his natural habitat tonight.”
I glance at Landon, skeptical. “He’s actually cooking?”
His lips twitch. “Don’t sound so surprised. He’s good.”
I follow him into the kitchen, where Wes stirs something in a wide skillet. Steam curls up in fragrant ribbons. Garlic, onions, tomato, basil—rich and layered and mouthwatering.
“Pasta night,” Wes announces. “Handmade sauce, roasted tomatoes, a little spice, and there might be some sausage in there. I’d tell you the recipe, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Translation,” Landon says, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “Whatever we had left in the kitchen for him to throw together.”
“Hey,” Wes says, mock-offended. “This is love in a pan. Don’t disrespect it.”
I laugh. They bicker like brothers, and somehow I’m folded into it without even trying.
I set out cutlery while Wes plates the food. The dishes don’t match—one plate has a cartoon moose on it, another sports a chip along the rim—but it doesn’t matter. By the time Wes brings everything over, the kitchen feels warmer than any fire ever could.
Dinner is easy. Too easy, maybe.
Wes talks enough for all three of us, spinning ridiculous stories about customers at the garage, about Becket arguing his way out of a speeding ticket while Ravi pretended not to laugh the whole time. Landon mostly shakes his head and mutters, “that’s not how it happened,” which only makes Wes lean harder into his version.
