Page 56 of Welded Defender
Which is exactly why I have to go.
The thought blooms in my chest so fast it steals my breath. If I stay—if I keep stepping into this warmth, letting it close around me—Brett will set it on fire to smoke me out. He will. He has before.
My eyes find the corner of the closet where my suitcase is tucked. I don’t move toward it. Not yet. Instead, I go through the motions of a normal morning, like maybe muscle memory can bully my brain into doing the sane thing.
Downstairs, the lobby chime rings. Boots scuff concrete. Murmurs rise and fall like tide. A laugh bursts through—that’s Wes’s bark, unmistakable. The radio crackles to life, country music barely audible. Through the floorboards, warmth rises—engines turning over, paperwork shuffling. I press my palm against the wall and feel the building’s pulse beneath my hand.
When I leave, this will all continue without me, and somehow that thought is enough to push me forward.
CHAPTER 30
Landon
The morning hum of the shop settles into its familiar rhythm—clanging wrenches, Wes singing off-key to the radio, Becket muttering at a rusted bolt. Normal. Exactly what I want for Marcy. A day that feels like any regular Thursday, not the kind that leaves scars.
The front bell jingles, cutting sharp through the noise. Nova breezes in with her scarf half-sliding off her shoulder and hair loose around her face. She carries a bakery box like it’s her golden ticket past Becket’s inevitable scowl.
“Hey there, grease monkeys,” she calls out, her grin bright against wind-flushed cheeks. “I bring sustenance as promised—still warm.” The scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee cuts through the motor oil and metal tang hanging in the air.
“Bless you,” Wes grins, wiping grease-stained hands on a rag that’s more black than its original blue. He abandons the disemboweled engine, tools scattered like forgotten toys around him.
“Jesus, Wes.” Becket’s voice echoes from under the hood of a rusted pickup, only his legs visible beneath the chassis. “You ate six pancakes before we got here. How the hell are you still hungry?”
“Driving here with your cranky ass worked up an appetite,” Wes says, snatching a cinnamon roll that leaves a glistening trail of icing on his fingertips. Steam curls up from the coffee he grabs with his other hand.
“I don’t doubt it,” Nova mutters, her scarf slipping further down one shoulder. “Is Marcy here? I got her a sprinkle donut—the pink one with extra rainbow bits—and I want to make sure she gets it before this human vacuum inhales everything.”
“Hey!” Wes protests around a mouthful, crumbs catching in his stubble. “When have I ever stolen someone else’s food?”
“Yesterday,” Joon mutters, coming over while wiping his hands methodically on a clean shop towel. “And Monday. And last Thursday.”
“Aw come on, how was I supposed to know that sandwich was yours?”
“Besides my name written in Sharpie on the wrapper?” Joon takes his coffee with oil-stained fingertips, the ghost of a smile softening his usually stern face as he nods to Nova.
Nova grins back, blonde curls bouncing as she shakes her head. “You guys bicker like old ladies at a church bake sale.”
“Don’t knock old ladies. They rock, just like the Golden Girls. I’m totally a Blanche.” Wes licks icing from his thumb with a theatrical wink. He nods toward Becket, hunched over the engine. “That one’s definitely a Dorothy. Always a buzzkill with those judgmental eyebrows.”
Nova snorts, leaning her hip against the workbench. “Can’t argue there.”
Becket doesn’t respond, but I don’t miss how his knuckles whiten around the wrench he’s gripping, the metal gleaming under the fluorescent shop lights. His jaw ticks—a small muscle jumping beneath the three-day stubble—as he turns back to his work, shoulders rigid beneath his oil-stained coveralls.
I don’t know what’s going on with him and Nova lately. They’ve always bickered like siblings fighting over the last pizza slice, but lately there’s been more bite to it—a sharp edge that cuts through the usual playful jabs.
I decide to step in before things escalate. “Marcy’s upstairs. I’m sure she’ll be happy for the company.”
Nova nods and swipes a coffee and the sprinkle donut off the counter before heading back outside toward the apartment.
I bend back over the Civic in bay two, the smell of burnt oil and coolant sharp in my nostrils as I tighten a radiator hose clamp until it bites into the rubber.
Through the thin ceiling, I hear Nova’s knuckles rap against the apartment door—once, twice, then a third time with more force. The shop falls quiet; even Wes stops humming. I wait for the familiar creak of floorboards, Marcy’s light footsteps, but there’s nothing but hollow silence that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
The door upstairs finally opens with a squeak of hinges, but closes almost immediately.
Seconds later, Nova bursts through the front door, her face drained of color, coffee forgotten in her trembling hand.
“Landon.” Her voice slices through the shop like a cold blade. My stomach plummets to my steel-toed boots. “What?”
