Page 7 of Welded Defender
I breathe a laugh. “I guess when you put it that way…”
He chuckles. “I thought I was tired of it when I was younger. Thought I’d find more away from this place.” He shrugs. “Guess you can see how that turned out for me.”
The truck clears the last bend and the town emerges, a huddle of yellow lights at the base of the next ridge.
The lights are warm and inviting, casting long shadows on the snow-dusted ground. But as inviting as it looks, I hope I don’t have to stay here long. There’s a knot in my stomach at thethought of being stuck in this town. It’s small and isolated, and Brett knows I’m here. Or does he? Brett likely thinks I’m on the run and halfway to somewhere new. Maybe he’s already left too? The thought gives me a small flicker of hope, but I push it down. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that hope gets us to let our guard down. I can’t afford to do that.
Landon pulls into the gravel lot of the mechanic shop, a modest building with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign that reads “OPEN.” He parks and hops out.
I scramble out of the truck, my boot slipping on ice. I crash into him, my chest against his flannel coat. Our breath clouds between us, disappearing into the same air.
"I was coming to open your door," he says, snowflakes caught in his lashes, melting slowly.
"Oh—I—sorry…?" My fingers clutch wool, finding purchase. I try to step back but his hands steady me at the waist.
His thumb brushes across my nose, comes away wet with snow. "Never be sorry with me."
His eyes don't leave mine. The wind stops howling in my ears. The gravel lot, the mechanic shop, the trucks—they blur at the edges. My heartbeat drowns out everything but the heat of his hands through my coat. Brett's face, his accusations, his slammed doors—they shrink smaller and smaller until they're pinpricks. As if every whisper of fear—dissolves under the intensity of this man. And that’s terrifying.
CHAPTER 4
Landon
Marcy stares up at me, her brow furrowed, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. My chest tightens. The fluorescent sign on the shop catches the shadows under her eyes—dark half-moons that warn of too many sleepless nights. My hands twitch at my sides, remembering how small her shoulders felt at Hal's when she'd approached me, voice barely audible over the jukebox. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to pull her against me again, to tuck her head under my chin where nothing could touch her. Instead, I force myself to let her go and shove my hands in my pockets.
She sags back against the truck, her shoulder blades catching on the metal frame. She’s barely five feet, the top of her head hardly reaching the side mirror. When she looks up at me, I notice how the collar of her coat swallows the delicate line of her jaw, how my own reflection in her eyes seems to tower above her.
“The shop's warm,” I say. “Come inside while I get your paperwork started.”
There’s a beat of hesitation, like she’s weighing if the warmth is worth the risk. She gives me a look I’ve seen before—halfsuspicion, half weary hope—and then she nods, sliding out of the truck behind me.
I lead the way, crunching through the snow. The front door’s stiff from the cold, but I give it a shove and it pops open. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a yellow glow across the shop floor. It smells like motor oil, coffee, and the lemony disinfectant Nova insists on using.
The door buzzes and Joon looks up from his spot behind the counter. His glasses are perched on his nose and he’s got a stack of invoices in his hands. His eyes look behind me to where Marcy is waiting and his brows flick up in silent question.
I nod in confirmation.Yes, it’s her.
“Is Nova still here or did she head home already?” I ask, kicking the snow off my boot.
Before Joon can answer, Nova pops in from the back room. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a high ponytail that bounces as she comes out from the back.
“Did I hear someone say my name?” She asks, passing Joon a cup of coffee before perching on the edge of the desk in her ridiculous owl pyjamas. She looks behind me to Marcy and nods. “This the damsel?”
Joon sighs but doesn’t bother correcting her. Joon used to feel the need to correct my sister's unfiltered behaviors in the past but in recent days he seems to have given up on the task. Becket is a different story. I don’t think he’ll stop correcting her until the day one of them dies. My money is on Becket going first.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, giving her a warning glance.
Nova grins, ignoring me completely as she jumps off the desk and approaches Marcy. “Hi, I’m Nova. I handle things around here while my brother gets all the credit.”
Marcy murmurs a polite, "Nice to meet you," but her gaze darts from the back door to the front entrance, lingering on thewindow beside the counter. Her fingers twist the strap of her purse, thumb flicking repeatedly over the metal clasp. When Joon shifts in his chair, she flinches, her weight immediately shifting to the balls of her feet.
Nova doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ve got nothing to worry about with these guys. Grade A morons, the lot of them.” She leans towards Marcy and lowers her voice. “Landon once lit his own hair on fire trying to fix a carburetor.”
Joon coughs into his fist, his shoulders shaking slightly. I narrow my eyes at him, but he suddenly finds the stack of invoices fascinating. Then I catch it—the corner of Marcy's mouth lifting for just a heartbeat, a tiny dimple appearing and vanishing so quickly I almost miss it. Something in my chest loosens. I'd let Nova tell the whole town about the carburetor incident if it meant seeing that dimple again.
Nova catches my eye and taps her temple with one finger before snatching her bag off the counter. "I'm heading out." She jangles her keys, then pauses beside Marcy, her voice dropping to a murmur. She scribbles something on a receipt and presses it into Marcy's palm. "I’m in the apartment building one block down. Second floor, blue door with the wind chimes. Come by anytime."
"Thanks," Marcy says, tucking the paper in her pocket.
