Page 69 of Welded Defender
“Of course,” he says solemnly. “Cookies. Beer. My high score at darts.”
“Dude be serious,” Becket mutters.
“Never,” Wes fires back, grinning.
The banter ripples through the room like a pressure valve releasing. It’s still serious—Brett is still out there. But for a moment, the fear doesn’t choke me.
I look around the room at the mismatched mugs on the coffee table, Nova tucking her feet under her on the couch, Joon’s quiet presence near the window, Becket pretending not to listen while actually catching every word. Wes keeps talking until Ravi’s hand swats his shoulder mid-sentence.
Landon’s pinky finger brushes against mine, a touch so light it could be accidental, but it isn’t.
I glance at him, his quiet confidence in the face of uncertainty wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Gratitude rushes through me, along with something else—something deeper that flutters in my chest. I can’t ignore the gravity of the situation with Brett, but here, surrounded by these people, the weight feels manageable.
It feels like I belong here. Like I’m finally home.
CHAPTER 38
Landon
Marcy rides beside me in the truck, her hair tucked into a messy braid that’s coming loose at the temples, wisps of light brown hair catching the morning light. Dark circles shadow her eyes, but there’s a softness to her expression I’ve never seen before.
Last night, everyone crowded into my living room until three in the morning—pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, beer bottles collecting in the sink, the sound of my sister’s cackle drowning out that trashy dating show she wouldn’t let us change. When they finally cleared out, Marcy followed me to bed without a word. She curled up against me, her spine fitting perfectly against my chest, her breathing gradually slowing to match mine. For the first time since she left, I slept straight through till dawn, her warmth anchoring me in a way I never knew I needed.
I’d offered to play hooky today, pull the blinds against the thin winter sunlight, and stay tangled in my flannel sheets until noon. I’d imagined tracing the freckles on her shoulder blades, making her pancakes with way too much syrup. But Marcy insisted she wanted to head into the garage. She missed work and wanted things to feel normal again.
As we drive into town, her hand drifts toward mine, pinky finger first, then the rest following like dominoes. I flip my palm up, and her skin slides against mine, warm and slightly rough at the knuckles. The tightness I’ve been carrying between my shoulder blades melts away. We pass Miller’s Grocery with its faded awning, the post office where Mrs. Henley still sorts mail with arthritic fingers, the diner where I’ve ordered the same breakfast since high school. Five minutes later, we’re rolling into the lot, ice crystals glittering on the garage windows. The “Five Brothers Garage” sign creaks slightly in the wind, its green paint chipped at the corners, revealing layers of history beneath.
I give her hand one last squeeze and kill the engine. “Ready?”
She swallows and nods. “Yeah.”
Our boots crunch through the morning frost as we step out of the truck together. My breath clouds in front of me, mingling with hers in the cold air. I leave just enough space between us—an invitation, not a demand—and she closes the gap, her shoulder brushing mine. At the door, the lock fights me like it always does. “Come on, you piece of—” I mutter, jiggling the key until it finally surrenders. Inside, the sharp tang of oil cuts through the artificial lemon scent, and when I hit the switch, the fluorescents flicker to life with their familiar electric hum.
That’s when I hear it.
Something scrapes against the floor inside. I stop dead. Without thinking, I throw my arm across Marcy, fingers gripping her sleeve. She turns to stone beside me. The office door creaks open, and there he is—Brett. Gaunt now, stubble darkening his jaw, unwashed hair falling into his face. But his hand—his hand is steady around the gun he’s pointing at me.
I don’t have time to wonder how he got inside without tripping the alarm or being caught on the cameras. My pulse spikes, my body moving before my mind does, shoving Marcy behind me. “Stay back, Marcy.”
“Landon—” Her fingers dig into my jacket, voice thin as thread.
I thrust my arm back, palm against her stomach, pushing her further behind me. My eyes never leave the barrel of the gun.
Brett’s mouth twists, lips peeling back from his teeth. The fluorescent light catches the sheen of sweat on his upper lip.
“Well, well.” His knuckles whiten around the grip. “Hero boy with his little truck and garage.” He shifts his weight, boot scuffing concrete. “Knew I’d find you two playing house.”
My jaw clenches so tight something pops near my ear. “The door says ‘closed.’”
Brett’s eyes slide past me, fixing on a point over my shoulder. His posture changes—shoulders dropping, head tilting, voice softening to that sickening croon that makes my skin crawl. “Come on now, Marcy. This little vacation’s over.” He extends his free hand, palm up. “Time to come home.”
I feel her flinch behind me. It’s like a live wire straight through my spine.
“Don’t look at her.” The words scrape my throat raw, my fists clenching until my knuckles crack.
Brett’s head tilts, the barrel of the gun catching fluorescent light. “Still think you can stand in the way? Should’ve stayed out of it, Hale.”
“She’s not yours.” I plant my feet wider on the concrete, shoulders squared. My voice drops to barely above a whisper.
