Page 78 of Welded Defender
He pulls me closer, one hand splayed across the small of my back, his warmth wrapping around me like a protective cocoon. His stubble grazes my forehead as he tucks me under his chin, our bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces that have finally found their match.
Landon's calloused thumb traces my jawline, tilting my face toward his. "Where do we go from here?" he whispers, vulnerability raw in his voice.
I catch my lower lip between my teeth and feel his pulse quicken beneath my fingertips as his eyes darken. "Forward," I murmur against his palm. "Side by side."
The smile that breaks across his face starts slow—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth—before spreading into something that squeezes my heart. "Side by side," he echoes, sealing the promise with a kiss.
CHAPTER 43
Landon
ONE YEAR LATER
Brett sits at the defense table, flanked by suits that cost more than my truck. I stare at him for three full seconds before recognition clicks. The man who once haunted Marcy’s nightmares has shrunk inside his court-mandated button-down, collar hanging loose around a neck that’s lost its bulk. His once-styled blond hair now lies cropped against his skull, tinged the color of old pennies beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights. When our eyes meet, his spine jerks upright—a marionette yanked by memory—before gravity reclaims him. His shoulders curve forward like they’ve forgotten how to hold themselves any other way.
It would be a lie to say I don’t find satisfaction in his disheveled appearance. But I don’t let myself dwell on him as I give my testimony about the morning I was shot. Instead, I think about her. Marcy. She’s the only reason any of this matters. Me getting shot? I couldn’t care less. I’d do it all again if it meant protecting her.
Marcy squeezes my fingers once, pulling me back to the moment. We wait outside the courtroom for her name to be called. It’s her turn to testify. Her hand is warm, damp with nerves. The engagement ring I gave her two months ago catchesthe harsh fluorescent light. Every time it does, my chest feels too full for my ribs. She grips my hand tighter while her other hand rests over the small swell beneath her dress. It’s subtle, only obvious if you know to look. I know. I brush that hand with my thumb—a quietI’m here.
Marcy couldn’t be there when I testified yesterday. But now that I’m done, I can be there for her in the courtroom today. I can be another solid presence in her peripheral vision when everything else in here feels designed to erase her—formal voices, cold processes, polite cruelty.
She’s brave. I know that in my bones. But it’s different watching courage gather itself in the person you love.
The Crown calls Marcy.
My heart kicks like it’s hitting a cold start. She releases my hand and steps toward the doors. They swing open, and she enters the courtroom. For a second, she sways but no one but me would notice that tiny shift of balance—then she squares her shoulders and moves forward. Her boots click against the tile as she walks to the witness stand. She doesn’t even glance in Brett’s direction. His eyes track her every move, but she acts like he doesn’t exist.
I follow behind, sliding into the pew next to Wes and Joon, my knee bouncing against the wood. Her palm presses flat against the Bible’s worn cover, her “I do” slicing through the courtroom’s silence. For hours, she sits alone in that chair while the Crown guides her through that night—question by careful question. The defense attorney rises, all slick confidence, firing rapid questions meant to tangle her timeline. But Marcy’s voice never wavers, even as her fingers twist her engagement ring in slow, deliberate circles. By the end, I can see her exhaustion. She sags back in her chair, still twisting the ring. Her eyes find mine, and I nod.
“You’re okay,” I mouth, and she nods back.
When she’s excused, she steps down slowly. I rise without realizing I’m moving. She reaches the aisle, and I meet her there. We make it outside the courtroom before she folds into me like a held breath finally released. I smell her hair—vanilla and lavender shampoo—and the world tilts back to level under my feet.
“You were perfect,” I whisper into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.
“I was terrified,” she whispers back.
“Terrified and perfect then.”
Her parents slip out of the courtroom behind us and hesitate in the hallway.
“Marcy,” her mother breathes, pressing fingers to her throat at the sight of us embracing. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Marcy goes still beside me. It’s a small stillness, but I feel it ripple through her.
Her father clears his throat. “We’re proud of you,” he says, the words sounding like he borrowed them from someone who knew how to say them sooner. “You were very… composed.”
Composed. I bite the inside of my cheek until the copper taste fills the edge off my temper.
Her mother’s gaze drops—one, two, three seconds—to the slight swell under Marcy’s dress. When she looks up, her eyes glisten. “You’re… expecting,” she says. Not a question.
Marcy lifts her chin. “Yes.”
Her father notices the ring at the same time. He reaches toward her hand like he’s studying something behind museum glass. “And this…”
“We’re engaged,” Marcy says. “We’ve been engaged for a couple of months.”
Her mother makes a broken sound. “Why don’t you come home for a while? We can reconnect and help you prepare for the baby.”
