Page 47 of Welded Defender
“Ha! No. My parents stuck me in classes when we first moved here. Thought I should learn to ‘stand my ground.’ Translation: learn to protect my sisters. Actual translation: learn how to survive them. They kicked my ass daily.”
I snort, covering my mouth.
“It’s true,” he insists. “Middle sister—she’s the one having a baby now—she hit harder than anyone in my weight class. And my oldest? She’d tackle me into the couch like she was training for the NFL. Competitions were a cakewalk compared to surviving my house.”
The image of tiny Ravi being tackled by his sisters makes something bubble up from my chest—a laugh that rings against the metal tools hanging on the wall.
Ravi’s eyes crinkle. “Music to my ears.”
He steps closer, shoulders squared. “If someone gets in your space—” His body looms over mine, not touching but close enough I can smell his cinnamon gum. “Plant your palm here—” he taps his own sternum, “—and push hard.”
I try it, my hand hovering an inch from his chest.
“Commit,” he says. “And don’t forget—noise is a weapon. Yell, scream, sing the alphabet if you have to. Doesn’t matter if you sound crazy. Crazy beats cornered.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know if I can.”
He sobers instantly. “That’s okay. You don’t have to today. You’ll get there. We’ll work on it.”
I nod, swallowing hard. Something in me unclenches—not because I feel brave, but because he isn’t asking me to be.
By the time we finish, my hair sticks to my temples and my sweater clings damply between my shoulder blades. My forearms shake when I lower them.
“Lesson one complete,” Ravi declares, bending at the waist in an exaggerated bow. “I think you might have even left a bruise, so I’d call that a success.”
“Pretty sure you were never in danger,” I say, flexing my fingers to work out the stiffness.
“You’d be surprised.” He nods toward my hands. “Those could do some real damage now. Tiny but mighty.”
I roll my eyes, but catch myself standing straighter, shoulders back, claiming just a little more space than before.
I turn for my water bottle on the counter and freeze. Landon’s eyes are on me, his hands still, the oil-stained rag dangling from his fingers. The carburetor sits forgotten.
His expression holds no pity or worry. Just something steady. Pride.
He gives me a single, deliberate nod.
Something loosens in my chest at the gesture. Approval. Belief.
As I step behind the counter I notice the tiniest change. For once I feel a flicker of control. Small. Fragile. But undeniably real.
CHAPTER 25
Marcy
The hill behind Landon’s place looks like it belongs on a postcard — smooth slopes, powder sparkling under a late-afternoon sun, the air crisp enough to sting. Wes insists it’s “prime sledding weather,” which naturally means he has to drag the rest of us along.
“Come on, you’ll love it,” Landon says, steadying me with one hand as I trudge uphill.
“You sound awfully confident for someone dragging me toward my death,” I mutter, trying not to trip over my boots.
He smirks. “If you die, Wes handles the paperwork. That should be punishment enough.”
“Hey!” Wes calls from ahead, already halfway up the hill with a bright red sled tucked under his arm. “I heard that. And my paperwork is flawless, thank you very much.”
Ravi laughs, puffing past him. “Your paperwork looks like a toddler’s art project.”
“Exactly!” Wes beams. “Toddlers are geniuses.”
