Page 37 of Welded Defender
“I just followed the recipe,” I protest, nudging the cooling rack farther from his reach. “And if you eat them all now, there won’t be any left for later.”
“That’s a problem for future Wes.” He grins and swipes another one anyway.
I brandish the spatula at him like a weapon. “Save some for Becket. I mean it.”
Wes groans dramatically but steps back, licking chocolate off his thumb. “Fine. But only because he’s terrifying when he’s disappointed.”
Unlike us, Becket is snowed in at town. He’s staying at the shop until things calm down. At least I stocked the fridge before I came over for dinner, so Becket’s got plenty of food.
Landon shakes his head from the table, where he’s been quietly sorting through a pile of mail. “Dramatics aside, these are really good, Marcy.”
Heat creeps up my neck at the simple praise. I duck my head, pretending to fuss with the next batch in the oven. It’s ridiculous, but the compliment warms me more than the fire crackling in the hearth.
The timer dings for the final batch. As I slide them onto the cooling rack, the butter-sugar-vanilla scent fills the kitchen. Wes pats his stomach and groans. “I may die, but what a way to go,” he announces, staggering toward the living room. “Survival cookies. Totally worth it.” He collapses onto the couch with theatrical flair, one arm draped over his eyes.
“Movie night,” he declares, grabbing the remote. “It’s a snowstorm requirement.”
I hover at the edge of the living room until Wes pats the couch. “Come on, scaredy-cat.” I perch on the far cushion, leaving the middle empty. Landon slides in, the couch dipping under his weight. His thigh settles six inches from mine—close enough that the space between us hums with possibility.
On screen, explosions bloom, and actors deliver one-liners that make Wes snort-laugh. My gaze drifts to Landon’s profile, the curve of his jaw catching blue light from the TV. My shoulders drop an inch. I exhale.
Halfway through, Wes groans and stands. “Cookie break.” He tosses a fleece blanket at us that lands half across our laps. My fingers curl to push it away when Landon’s pinky grazes my knuckle beneath the fabric. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t move closer. Just that one point of contact, warm and steady. My hand stills. The blanket remains.
By the end, Wes is snoring in the armchair, credits rolling over the quiet crackle of the fire. My eyelids flutter, head nodding forward before I jerk it back up. The weight of the day settles into my bones like sand.
“You should take my bed,” Landon says quietly, his words vibrating through the cushion between us. “I’ll crash out here.”
My fingers tighten around the blanket’s edge. The hallway stretches dark beyond the living room—Brett used to wait in dark hallways. My heart skips.
“Will you stay?” The words tumble out before I can catch them.
His brow furrows. “In the room?”
I nod, twisting the fabric between my fingers until my knuckles turn pale. Three nights ago, I’d woken gasping, sheets soaked with sweat, the phantom grip of hands around my throat. The night before that, I’d paced until dawn. But last night, when I’d fallen asleep on this same couch beside Landon, I’d slept until morning.
“I—I didn’t have any nightmares last night.”
The confession hangs between us, fragile as glass.
Landon studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Then he nods once. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”
Relief floods through me, sharp and unexpected. “Thank you.”
He rises without a word, extending his hand. When I take it, calluses scrape gently against my skin, his fingers curling just enough to support without gripping. The floor tilts slightly as I stand, my legs stiff from sitting too long. In his room, the bed looms large—a navy comforter pulled tight across the corners, two pillows stacked against the headboard.
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting to a bare patch of carpet beside the nightstand. “I’ll take the floor.”
“No.” The word snaps out. My throat tightens. “I meant—stay. Here.” I tap the mattress twice, eyes fixed on a loose thread in the comforter. “Just... beside me.”
Landon's jaw works, a muscle flickering beneath stubble. He nods and steps into the hallway. I change into the t-shirt and sleep shorts left for me and slide between sheets that smell of mountain pine and something distinctly him. When Landon returns a few minutes later, he’s changed into flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt. The mattress dips under his weight, leaving six inches of empty space between us.
I count his breaths—one, two, three—before my fingers inch across the cool cotton. His hand finds mine, rough palm settling against my knuckles. He lifts his arm in silent invitation.
I curl against cotton and heartbeat. My muscles uncoil one by one, like springs finally released. No phantom hands at my throat. No shadow-Brett lurking in the corners. Just the steady rise and fall of Landon’s chest against my cheek as my eyelids grow heavy and the world softens at its edges.
CHAPTER 21
Landon
