Page 48 of Welded Defender
By the time we reach the top, I’m winded and questioning every decision that led me here. Landon holds out the sled with a look that says don’t even think about arguing.
“That thing’s barely bigger than a cafeteria tray,” I point out. “There’s no way it holds both of us.”
“That’s what makes it fun.” He pats the space in front of him.
“Your idea of fun sounds like a concussion waiting to happen.”
“Sit, Marcy.” It’s firm but not bossy — just that quiet, steady Landon way that makes it impossible to say no.
So I sit.
His arms circle my waist as the sled tips forward. My stomach drops. The runners catch, scraping ice, and then we’re flying — my hair whipping back against his chin, his breath warm against my ear while cold air stings my cheeks. A sound bursts from my throat, half-scream, half-giggle, mixing with his low chuckle that vibrates through my shoulder blades. The hill rushes beneath us in a spray of diamond dust.
At the bottom, the sled catches an edge. We pitch sideways and tumble into the snow. Cold shoots up my sleeve, down my collar. I blink up at the blue sky, feel his chest still shaking with laughter beneath my shoulder, taste snowflakes melting on my lips.
“Graceful,” I mutter, pushing against the solid warmth of his chest. My mittens slip on his jacket.
His fingers find my waist, holding me steady. His lips brush the shell of my ear as he speaks. “Not bad for your first run. Only partial screaming.”
A tremor runs up my spine. My breath catches, forming a tiny cloud between us. I swallow hard. “I was too busy trying to stay alive.”
“Same thing.” His grip loosens, and he springs up in one fluid motion before extending his hand. When I take it, he tugs me upright and pauses, thumb brushing a clump of snow from my shoulder. His eyes follow the motion as if memorizing the curve where my neck meets collarbone.
Before I can say anything, Wes rockets past us on his sled, spinning in a circle and yelling, “Look at me, I’m a majestic swan!” right before he wipes out headfirst into a drift.
Ravi claps so hard his gloves squeak. “Majestic swan my ass!”
“Shut up!” Wes’ voice comes muffled from the snow. “That was a tactical maneuver!”
Landon shakes his head. “He’s your problem now.”
“Worth it!” Wes springs from the snowdrift like a jack-in-the-box, his beanie crowned with clumps of white. He scoops up a handful, packs it with three quick motions, and hurls it at Ravi. It sails past as Ravi sidesteps, already molding his own ammunition with surgeon-like precision. His return fire catches Wes square in the shoulder, exploding in a puff of powder. Shrieks and taunts fill the air as they duck and weave between drifts.
A little apart on the hill, Joon sits hunched over something on his lap, his back against a pine tree. His pencil scratches against paper, eyes flicking up every few seconds. I crunch through the snow and peer over his shoulder. On the page, Landon’s laugh lines crinkle perfectly around his eyes as he watches Wes face-plant into a drift.
“Oh,” I breathe. “That’s amazing!”
His hand freezes mid-stroke. “It’s nothing.” The page flips with a soft thwap.
“Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” I say. “You’re really good.”
He shrugs. “It’s just a hobby.” He says it in a way that signals the end of the conversation, so I leave it be.
The sun sinks behind the trees, casting long purple shadows across the snow. My fingers have gone numb inside my mittens, and Landon’s nose has turned the color of a cherry popsicle. He kneels by the fire pit, arranging logs with careful precision while sparks dance up into the darkening sky. Ten feet away,Wes waves a marshmallow on a stick like he’s conducting a symphony.
“You’re doing it all wrong,” Nova says, rotating her own marshmallow with surgical precision, keeping it at the perfect distance from the flames. “It’s about patience.”
Wes plunges his directly into the fire. “Watch and learn.” The marshmallow erupts into a blue-orange torch. He yanks it back, blowing on it with puffed cheeks until the flame dies, leaving a blackened, smoking husk. He grins and raises his stick triumphantly. “Marshmallows are basically sugar grenades, and I’m the demolition expert.”
Hot chocolate sprays from my nose.
Nova groans. “How do you live with him?”
“Selective hearing,” Becket says dryly.
I laugh into my cup, the warmth spreading through me, sweeter than the chocolate. This feels like something I haven’t had in a long time — easy, safe, good.
“Alright,” Nova says suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she skewers a fresh marshmallow with the pointed end of her stick, twisting it until it’s perfectly centered. “I have a question.”
