Page 39 of Welded Defender
Wes takes another cookie, chews thoughtfully. “Newsflash: nobody’s solid ground all the time. Not me, not Becket, not you. The point isn’t to never screw up. It’s to show up when it matters. And you’ve been showing up since the second she got here.”
I lean back, dragging a hand through my hair. The fire pops and cracks. Wind rattles the window again, insistent. “And if that’s not enough?”
“Then it’s her call,” Wes says simply. “Not yours. Not mine. Hers. She’s not your mom, and you’re sure as hell not your dad. She’s not like the others either—she actually cares about you. That’s the difference.”
The silence stretches between us. Snow hisses against the glass like static.
Finally, I let out a breath, long and heavy. “You think I’m overthinking this.”
“I think you care.” Wes shrugs, his voice softer now. “Maybe more than you want to admit. That’s not a bad thing—just don’t let the fear of becoming him keep you from being you.”
The words settle deep, uncomfortable but grounding.
I huff out a laugh, short and sharp. “Christ. You spend so much time cracking jokes, I forget you’ve actually got a brain under there.”
Wes grins around a bite of cookie. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Finding out I’m not just a pretty face?”
I snort. “And then you go and ruin it.” I shake my head. “Thanks though.”
“Anytime.” He clutches the plate to his chest, crumbs dusting his hoodie. “Also, for the record, I’m not saving any cookies for Becket. He can fight me later.”
He disappears down the hallway, socked feet silent against the floor.
When I finally push to my feet, the house settles into stillness again. I ease open the bedroom door, careful not to wake her.
Marcy’s curled on her side, blankets pulled to her chin. A fine line cuts between her brows, her jaw clenched tight even in sleep. Her fingers twitch against the sheet, reaching for something that isn’t there.
I slip onto the mattress carefully, holding my breath as the springs creak beneath me. My hand finds a place on the sheet near hers—not touching, just… there.
Her fingertips graze mine. Once. Twice. Then they settle, warm against my knuckles.
The tension melts from her face. Her breathing deepens.
Something unfamiliar expands in my chest—lighter than the weight I’ve carried since I was a kid, standing in that kitchen doorway while my father’s fist punched holes in the wall. My hand stays perfectly still beneath hers, afraid to break whatever this moment is.
Snow taps gentle fingers against the window. I breathe in rhythm with her. In, out. Here, now.
For the first time in years, my body relaxes before my mind does.
And when sleep finally comes, it doesn’t feel like surrender. It feels like trust.
CHAPTER 22
Marcy
The world is muffled when I step outside.
Snow clings to the trees, their branches bowed like they’ve been holding their breath all week. The storm has finally broken. The sky isn’t clear—just a thin wash of pale blue fighting through stubborn gray—but the flakes have slowed to a lazy drift instead of the heavy, endless curtain that swallowed everything these last few days.
The air is sharp and clean, cold enough to sting the inside of my nose. I tug the borrowed gloves higher on my wrists and exhale, watching my breath bloom white before it disappears.
Then I hear it: the steady thud of an axe biting into wood.
I follow the sound around the side of the house, boots crunching through the snow’s crust. And there he is.
Landon.
He’s by a stack of rounds near the tree line, flannel jacket unzipped, beanie pulled low over his ears. His breath fogs as he lifts the axe, muscles flexing beneath his jacket. The blade comes down clean, splitting the log into two neat halves with a satisfying crack.
