Page 43 of Welded Defender
A surprised laugh slips out of me. It feels bright. “My parents weren’t big on comfort,” I say, the words tasting less sharp than they used to. “If I was scared, I was told to get over it. So I learned to get small instead.”
He’s quiet for a long beat. “You don’t have to be small here.”
I nod. “I’m starting to learn that.”
He doesn’t step closer or rush the moment. He just nods like I’ve said something important and he’s filed it away somewhere safe. “Good.”
The wind shifts and sends snow skittering down from the eaves. He glances at the sky. “We should get inside. Wes will threaten to call Search and Rescue if we make him eat lunch alone.”
“Tragedy.”
“Truly.”
We climb the steps and without thinking, he reaches out to brush a snowflake off my cheek. His thumb lingers a half-second too long. My breath does that hitch thing again, and this time I don’t try to hide it.
He notices. Of course he notices. His eyes soften. “Reality can wait five more seconds,” he murmurs. He’s closer than I realized, snow dusting his shoulders, his hair damp at the edges. His eyes search mine like he’s weighing something he’s wanted to do for days.
Then he cups my cheek.
The warmth of his palm startles me, even through the sting of cold air. His thumb brushes just beneath my cheekbone, slow and sure, giving me every chance to turn away. I don’t. I hold my breath instead.
He kisses me. His mouth is warm, lips slightly chapped from the cold. It starts soft, careful—like he’s testing the ground before stepping fully onto it. But that steadiness in him doesn’t falter or waver. I rise onto my toes, leaning into him, and his hand slides back to cradle my jaw. The world goes very quiet—no storm, no roads, no Brett, no future to unravel. Just this. Him. Warmth against cold.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t step away. His forehead rests against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the thin winter air.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice rough, almost vulnerable.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “More than okay.”
He smiles and lets the door swing open. Warmth rushes out—garlic and coffee and Wes’ terrible playlist spilling into the night.
Back to reality.
But not like before. The roads might be open and the world ready to rush back in, but something in me has shifted. There’s a stack of wood by the door with my fingerprints all over it. There’sa dent in the snow out back that proves I didn’t flinch away. There’s the taste of something sweet and steady still lingering on my mouth.
And there’s Landon, brushing my sleeve as we step inside—like a reminder I can tuck into my pocket: I don’t have to do any of this alone.
CHAPTER 23
Landon
By the time the plow crawls past the shop for the second time, the town is half-awake again—salt dusting the blacktop like frost, people testing brakes at intersections, the hardware store’s bell clanging open and shut.
I park close to the bay doors at the shop, kill the engine, and sit there a beat. Marcy’s hand is warm in mine on the middle console, glove pressed against glove. She stares out at the garage like she’s bracing for impact and pretending she isn’t.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No,” she admits, a small smile barely there. “But yeah.”
We climb out into air that carries that clean, snow-after-snow smell, the sun bright enough to make everything feel a little unreal. While I grab the container of cookies she made for the guys, she tips her face up to the apartment windows. The blinds hang half-open. No movement. Just the glint of the silly cat ornament she set on the windowsill.
Inside, the lobby holds the kind of cold that lives in concrete. The lemon cleaner my sister swears by mingles with motor oil, along with the steady tick of the heater. Joon slips through the side door right then, cheeks red, snow melting in his hair.
“Power held,” he reports, tapping the thermostat up. “Pipes are fine. I ran the taps earlier.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Becket already beat us here. Figures. He’s kneeling by the front door, tucking a wire into the trim with a flathead and the kind of focus that makes people confess things without meaning to. A small black keypad sits on the wall now where the crooked coat hook used to hang.
