Page 35 of Welded Defender
And me? I eat.
Really eat.
The pasta is incredible—simple, perfectly seasoned, filling. Each bite grounds me, reminds me that I’m here, not there. That I’m at a mismatched table with two men who make me laugh, not trapped in a kitchen where laughter was a warning bell.
Halfway through my second plate, Wes raises his glass toward me. “To our guest,” he declares. “Thanks for putting up with us.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “You didn’t have to?—”
“Wrong,” Wes cuts me off cheerfully. “Hospitality is the Black Pines way. Besides, Landon would’ve sulked if you said no to coming over.”
“Wes,” Landon warns, his voice low.
Wes grins. “See?”
I duck my head, sipping water to hide the way my heart stutters.
The conversation drifts after that. Wes asks me about growing up, but in that loose, joking way that doesn’t demand anything I don’t want to give. I tell him about living in the city. He laughs when I describe falling into a stranger’s lap during a sudden stop on an overcrowded bus.
It all feels… normal.
I can’t remember the last time I felt normal.
After dinner, Wes insists on cleaning up. “My masterpiece, my mess,” he says, shooing us away.
That leaves me and Landon in the living room.
The space is cozy. A worn leather couch faces a stone fireplace, where flames crackle and throw light across the room. Shelves overflow with old books and knick-knacks—half-burned candles, a carved wooden bear, and what looks suspiciously like a snow globe collection.
I curl up at one end of the couch, tucking my legs beneath me. Landon sits at the other end. Not close, not far. Just enough space that the air between us hums.
For a while, it’s quiet—only the pop of the fire and Wes clattering pans in the kitchen. My eyelids grow heavy, but I fight it, restless. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, but it makes me aware of how close we are.
“Can I ask you something?” I blurt.
Landon shifts, glancing at me. “Yeah.”
“Why Black Pines? You’re good with… people. You could’ve left, gone anywhere. Why stay here?”
His eyes drop to the fire, shadows flickering across his face. For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then his voice comes, low and steady. “Because this place doesn’t let you go. Not if you’re the kind of person who owes it something.”
I frown. “Owes it?”
“My mom,” he says simply. “She worked herself raw to raise me and Nova here. This town looked out for us when she couldn’t. Neighbors dropped food off, Beckett’s dad gave me my first job. When you’re a kid and people step in like that… it sticks.”
There’s quiet pride in his tone, threaded with something heavier. I feel it settle in my chest.
I hesitate, then ask, “Do you ever regret it? Staying?”
He looks at me then, his green eyes catching mine. “Not really. Some things are worth rooting yourself for.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. Maybe because I’ve spent so long running, because “roots” feels like a foreign language I don’t know how to speak.
I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod, staring at the fire.
The silence stretches again, but softer now. Easier.
“You’re different when you smile,” Landon says suddenly.
