Page 40 of Welded Defender
My throat goes a little dry.
It isn’t just his strength, though that’s impossible not to notice. It’s the rhythm. The control. Like everything about him—measured, steady, deliberate. The kind of strength that doesn’t announce itself but holds things together without asking for thanks.
He glances up at that exact moment. Our eyes catch. Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe, or just awareness. He straightens and wipes a gloved hand across his brow.
“Morning,” he says. His voice carries easily in the still air.
“Morning.” Mine comes out a little breathless. I clear my throat, forcing casualness. “Need a hand?”
He frowns like he isn’t sure I mean it. “With this?”
“I can stack, at least.” I nod toward the porch.
There’s a beat long enough that I wonder if he’ll turn me down. Then he jerks his chin toward the growing pile. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when your arms hate me later.”
I smile and crunch through the snow to join him.
The work is simple. He splits the rounds—clean, efficient—and I gather the halves and carry them to the stack by the porch. My breath comes in little puffs, arms straining even with just a few at a time. It feels good. Real. Like I’m finally pulling my weight instead of watching from the sidelines.
He studies the pile I’ve started, then steps over and nudges a few pieces into a neater crisscross. “Here,” he says. “Leave little gaps. Lets the air move through so it seasons right.”
“Got it.” I copy his pattern. “See? I can be useful.”
A tiny sound—almost a laugh—escapes him. “Never said you weren’t.”
“Your tone said it.”
He glances up, mouth tipping just a little. “What my tone meant was, ‘don’t throw your back out,’ which isn’t the mostromantic sentence I’ve ever said, but it keeps my workers' comp premiums down.”
I roll my eyes and reach for another half-log. “Swoon.”
For a while, we work in comfortable silence. The whump of the axe. The thunk of wood stacking. The soft hiss of the last flakes drifting down. When I steal glances at him, I catch him doing the same—quick, almost sheepish. The air between us feels… clearer than it has in days, like the sky after snow. Like we’re both learning how to breathe again.
He sets another round on the stump and lifts the axe. “Took me years to get this right,” he says suddenly. “Used to send the blade burying in the block and nearly bounce my teeth out.”
“Who taught you?” I ask, adjusting a lopsided layer.
“My stepdad.” He raises and drops the axe—crack. “Rick said if I could split wood, I’d always stay warm even if the power went out.” He sets the axe aside and toes the halves toward me, grinning. “Also said it was cheaper than therapy.”
“Was it?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Mostly it’s just… rhythm. Something to do with your hands while your brain works out the knots.”
I tuck that away, filing it under things I’m learning about him. “What about when you were a kid? Before Rick?”
He hesitates for just a moment, then answers without any drama. “We didn’t have a fireplace. We had space heaters and a lot of blankets. And I spent more time than I should’ve making sure my mom stayed warm.” He flicks me a look, lightening the mood. “You learn to make do.”
“I’m good at that,” I say. The words come out quieter than I mean them to.
His gaze lingers like he catches the edge hidden underneath. He doesn’t push, though. “You ever do winters like this?”
“In Hamilton?” I huff a laugh. “We get storms. But nothing like this. My parents weren’t the hot cocoa, sit-by-the-fire type. If the power went out, my dad would pace around swearing at the hydro company.” I nudge a piece of wood into place.
“And your mom?”
I pause. “My mom has her own issues. She always wanted things to look perfect on the outside, no matter how bruised and broken they were underneath. She liked putting on this persona of a loving, involved mother, but really she was more worried about herself. When I was little and had a bad dream, she’d tell me to drink some water, go back to bed, and not wake her again.”
He goes still for a beat. “I’m sorry.”
