Page 38 of Welded Defender
The storm hasn’t let up all night.
Wind hurls itself against the north side of the house, rattling the old kitchen window until it groans in its frame. The chimney moans when the gusts hit just right—a hollow sound that slides down into the walls. But the fire in the living room holds steady, its orange glow painting the edges of the room. That’s the thing about this place: it creaks and complains, but it doesn’t give.
I should be asleep. Wes is out cold upstairs, snoring like a freight train. Marcy’s in my bed, curled into my pillow. And me? I’m hunched on the couch with my elbows on my knees, head in my hands, listening to the storm like it might hold answers I don’t have.
Last night, her head had dropped against my shoulder, her breathing gone soft and even. No sudden jerk away, no whispered apology, no rigid inch of space wedged between us. Just trust—quiet, unspoken, settling across me like a blanket. Something in my chest had loosened then, a knot I didn’t even know I’d been carrying.
But instead of peace, it left me restless. My jaw locked tight until it ached, fists curled against my thighs. Not because Brett’sout there somewhere in the dark, waiting for another chance to close in. Because of the other fear—the one I can’t shake no matter how many locks are on the door.
The fear that whispers in a voice too close to my father’s.
I drag both hands over my face, forcing a breath out through my nose. The fire snaps. Shadows dance across the floor.
I know what it looks like when a man promises safety and delivers something else entirely. I know how easily those lines blur. I grew up watching it—my father turning charm into a weapon, promises into chains. And my mom swallowing lie after lie because she wanted so desperately to believe he could change.
That image has its claws in me. Every time Marcy leans closer, every time she looks at me like I’m solid ground, that voice in the back of my head whispers I’ll ruin it.
The floor creaks overhead, sharp enough to snap me out of my spiral. I straighten.
Wes shuffles in, hair sticking up at odd angles, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. He yawns loud enough to rattle the windows, scratches his chest, and squints at me before making a beeline for the fridge.
“You know it’s three in the morning, right?” His voice is gravelly and sleep-thick. He pulls out the milk carton, not bothering to check the expiration date.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I mutter.
“Uh huh.” He pours himself a glass, sets it on the counter with a soft clink, then lifts the plate of Marcy’s cookies from earlier. He drops into the armchair across from me, balancing the plate on his lap like it’s treasure. “So what’s eating you? And don’t say nothing—you’ve got that broody crow look going.”
I narrow my eyes. “What the hell’s a broody crow look?”
“This.” He waves a cookie in my direction, grinning through a mouthful of crumbs. “All storm clouds and frown lines. Like you’re waiting for the sky to cave in.”
“Maybe I am.” I rub a hand over my jaw, feeling the stubble scratch against my palm. “Brett was outside the shop the other day, Wes. He knows exactly where she is. And now I’ve got her here, snowed in with no way out. Tell me how that doesn’t end badly.”
Wes chews slowly, swallows, and shrugs. “Could end badly. Could end fine. You stressing at three a.m. isn’t gonna change which way it goes.”
“That’s not good enough.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I don’t take them back. “She deserves better than just waiting to see what happens.”
“True.” Wes leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “So what’s your plan? Pack her up and drag her someplace else? Camp outside her door twenty-four seven like a guard dog?”
I don’t answer because part of me wants to say yes to both.
Wes studies me for a long moment, his grin fading. “Look, I get it. You want to protect her. But you gotta figure out if you’re doing it because she actually needs it—or because you need to feel like you can fix something. There’s a difference.”
My chest tightens. “If something happens to her?—”
“Then it happens,” Wes cuts in, his voice gentler now. “And we deal with it. Together. That’s the whole point of us, right? We’re not your old man, Landon.”
The words land hard, sharper than the storm clawing at the windows.
“You think that’s what this is about?” My voice drops to barely above a whisper.
“I think half the time you’re terrified you’ll wake up one day and realize you’ve turned into him.” Wes’s gaze doesn’t waver. No judgment, just brutal honesty. “And that’s why you either chase women you can fix or lock yourself up so tight nobody gets in.”
The room feels smaller. Hotter. My throat turns to sandpaper.
He’s not wrong.
“I watched Mom let him talk his way back in over and over,” I admit, the words scraping out low and rough. “And every time it ended the same. Broken promises. Broken dishes. Broken house.” My knuckles dig into my knees until they ache. “I swore I’d never be that man. But when Marcy looks at me like I’m solid ground…” I shake my head. “I don’t know if I can live up to it.”
